


Misfortune's Daughter

by dreamslikerivers



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dom Cullen Rutherford, F/M, Light Dom/sub, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-01-15 13:55:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 67,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12322362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamslikerivers/pseuds/dreamslikerivers
Summary: An impulsive elf who's never known love or affection struggles to find her place in the Inquisition when the burden of becoming the Herald of Andraste falls upon her. Eventually steamy romance with Cullen and intense platonic emotional bonding with Solas.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This story is AU for the tweaking of personal relationship timelines, but will follow major plot points, ideally through Trespasser.

“So the Inquisition is reborn.” Yvaleth's shoulders hunched in tension for a moment at the interruption of her peaceful moment; she sat on a rocky ledge overlooking most of the rest of Haven, and her hands were busy trimming elfroot with a small herbalist's knife. But the shoulders relaxed again just as quickly as she recognized Solas's voice.

“Apparently. And I haven't even found out what we're inquiring into,” she answered without turning around. It was a weak joke, but she was gratified by the soft puff of air that passed for a laugh with him, and Solas swung down his legs to sit beside her. She placed the clean, trimmed root into a bowl full of its fellows and picked up another hairy, dirty herb to wash and process. It was a peaceful, mindless task—just what Yvaleth wanted as she tried to catch up with everything fate had thrown her over the last week.

“The future, I suppose. Isn't that what every movement does? Ask a question of the future?” Solas didn't look at her, but fixed his gaze out onto the horizon where the early winter sunset dyed the snowy peaks crimson.

“You'll have to forgive me if I haven't considered the matter philosophically, _hahren_ ,” Yvaleth answered diplomatically. The deferential term slipped out almost automatically. Even though he wasn't Dalish, Solas had the same calm gravity of the clan elders. The same way of speaking where everything was a lesson, a kind of test. And, for Yvaleth, usually a test she was bound to fail by being too impulsive, too doubtful, too...Yvaleth. Didn't her presence here mark just another failure, after all? Being sent to spy on the Conclave was just one more test that she had not passed.

But Solas smiled a little. “No, I suppose not. I'm just glad to see you awake and alive, truth be told.”

“Thanks in no small part to you, I suspect. I owe you my thanks.” Yvaleth strove for a calm, formal tone to match his own coolness. That he was the most _elvhen_ of the people who surrounded her was both a comfort and a difficulty, for it put her back into the place of a young apprentice who could never quite meet the heavy expectations put upon her.

He shrugged. “It was easier after you stabilized the Breach. Once your mark stopped spreading, it was only a matter of waiting until your own power reasserted itself. Dealing with the Breach drained your magic to the very last.”

“And still didn't solve the problem,” Yvaleth said bitterly. She had really hoped that she could close the Breach, that this could all be over... Yet some part of her couldn't help feeling glad that it wasn't over. That she wouldn't be returning to Clan Lavellan, accepting the scolding of her Keeper for being so conspicuous, so un- _elvhen_. The unwelcome task she'd accepted as if it were a punishment had become something more, and Yvaleth wasn't ready for the adventure to end.

“You stopped its advance. You gave us time to act.”

“You mean the mark did,” she corrected, reaching up to push a wisp of dark gold hair back from her cheek, smudging her face with dirt.

“I believe I know what I mean, _da'len_ ,” Solas countered, a little waspish. “The mark is part of you now, and when you use it, you draw on your own power. But the Breach was not created through the power of one person, and it cannot be closed thus either.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the many deaths at the Temple of Ashes were a part of the formula, not an unconsidered side effect. Ripping a hole in the Veil like that—it required tremendous power. And nothing raises power like sacrifice.”

“Don't tell that to the _shemlin_ ,” Yvaleth said, trying to sound light-hearted about it. “I'm sure they'd consider sacrificing a Dalish spy an excellent trade for closing the Breach.”

“Are you afraid?” Solas turned so that he faced her properly for the first time, but Yvaleth kept her eyes down, focusing on her task. She had been working with herbs and potions since she could walk, and the familiar herb was an anchor in a world gone mad.

“I don't know. I don't trust them, but I don't...I don't want to run away, if that's what you mean.” Finally she did look up, giving him a half-grin. “Even if Sister Leliana didn't have her spies shadowing me day and night.”

Solas glanced briefly at the roof of the building behind them, where both of them knew someone was crouched behind the chimney. “I could say the same. There is something amusing about us, two _elvhen_ apostate mages, being protected by the Left and Right Hands of the Divine. At least when we're together, our new friends can spell each other when one needs to pass water.”

Yvaleth snorted. “Amusing maybe—but it's not much to put faith in. They'll hand us over to the Chantry to be butchered the moment it serves them. The only reason they've protected me so far is because they don't know if my hand will still close the rifts once Chancellor Roderick removes it from the rest of me.” Yvaleth didn't like the bitter way speaking those words made her feel. “ _Ir abelas, hahren_. I suppose I _am_ afraid. Yet even so...there's nowhere I would rather be right now. Half of them look at me with suspicion and half with awe, and all of them are afraid of me, and they yoke me with their stupid names, but...but I feel awake finally. Like...like a knife,” she stumbled.

“A knife?” His tone was quiet, non-judgmental. That was the one thing that _did_ set Solas apart from the clan elders. Though he always seemed to be testing and trying her mind, her reactions, he seldom voiced any disapproval.

“If people had been trying to use it for a spoon ever since it was forged. But one day, the huntsman picks it up to cut through hide and sinew, and it remembers that it is a knife, not an ill-made spoon.” The words tumbled out over one another, and Yvaleth was embarrassed at how ardent she sounded.

“You're younger than I realized,” Solas said softly. “When I first saw you, pain and fear marked your face so deeply I could not see what a child you are.”

Yvaleth blushed up to the roots of her hair and tried to keep her expression neutral as she laid the last clean root in the bowl. “I suppose I am. Perhaps you think I had better go home and try harder to be a good, obedient spoon.”

“No.” He shook his head, smiling. “I think you a very poor spoon indeed, _da'len_. And I am glad you have stayed. Youth is no shame. And fate—your huntsman—often chooses youth as its tool. An undulled blade, if you like. A force not yet spent in error and waste.”

Then Solas stood up and held his hand out to her. “And I think it is far too cold for one hardly out of her sickbed to stay out of doors any longer. Come.”

Yvaleth took his hand and allowed him to help her up. He was probably right, even if she did hate the close walls of Haven's dwellings. Still, she felt more peaceful than she had when she'd come out to work on her task and watch the sunset. The day was done—and even if _one more day_ was all the security their Inquisition could give her, it was enough.

 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen makes a terrible first impression...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is AU for personal/romantic interaction timelines, but follows DA:I's major plot points through Trespasser. Thanks to those who left kudos--I really appreciate and am encouraged by them!

It was still early enough that the sun's warmth had not yet gentled the icy town of Haven when Cullen finished the porridge he had little enough taste for and headed for the war room. When he had arrived late the night before after two days of hard riding, Cassandra had insisted they meet first thing the next morning to work on strategy—and to introduce him to the Herald.

The Herald of Andraste. Some part of Cullen's Chantry-bred mind balked deeply at the idea of a Dalish mage—who almost certainly didn't even believe in Andraste, much less honor her—being given such a title. _Blasphemous,_ Knight-Commander Greagoir's voice hissed in the back of his mind. Still, he was interested to see the woman who bore the title. Whether she was sent by Andraste or not, he'd already heard awed whispers of how she closed rifts and calmed the Breach with no more than a gesture.

But when he arrived at the War Room, Cassandra, Leliana, and Josephine were there, but not the Herald. “—send out troops to search?” Cassandra was asking, her voice harsh with anxiety.

“What are we searching for?” Cullen asked, saluting when Cassandra turned to face him.

“The Herald has gone missing,” Cassandra said. “She went out into the woods this morning, and somehow lost the scout who was supposed to be shadowing her.”

“I _told_ him to remember she was Dalish. Apparently she went up a tree—and he _swears_ there were no others close enough to jump to—and after a while he realized she was entirely gone.” Leliana nodded to her boots, which sat dripping by the door. “At least she can't get very far barefoot in this snow. We'll find her easily enough.”

“I had understood the Herald aided us of her own choice,” Josephine said smoothly. “Am I to understand then that she is being kept and guarded here?” Though her delivery was mostly impassive, Cullen noted a flicker of displeasure in her dark eyes.

“It _is_ her own choice,” Cassandra insisted. “She gave me her word she would help. I did not expect her to betray it so, but I suppose her people would not consider a promise to a human worth honoring.” She seemed as disappointed as she was angry, and Cullen gathered that the Herald had impressed her up until that point. That was something rare, and he added it to his little store of knowledge about the mysterious Herald.

“Solas is still here at least,” Leliana said. “So she's on her own.”

“Given her skill at foraging, that only makes her more likely to evade any followers, not less,” Cassandra pointed out. “For she's perfectly capable of protecting herself in combat, as you well know.”

There was a brief silence, and Cullen wrestled with his own reactions. Of course they would need to keep the Herald close; her powers alone could manage the rifts and gave hope of closing the Breach. But after the hard lesson he'd learned under Knight-Commander Meredith, their cold pragmatism sat badly with him. Still, he kept silent. He'd only just arrived, it was better not to throw himself into the fray on behalf of a woman he hadn't even met yet.

But the silence was interrupted by the war room banging open, and the appearance of a young elven woman. Her hair was the shade of old gold, but there were hints of copper and honey and even crimson in the bright strands that had worked free of her practical ponytail. Large green eyes were wide with alarm, and the skirts of her robe were held up like a bag, gripped tightly in two small hands. She limped towards them. “I beg pardon, Lady Cassandra,” she said, all in a rush. “I went out early to gather dawn needles, and I was getting all I could and practicing the ice bridges that Solas has been teaching me so I could move quickly and get the needles at the very top, and then as soon as I got back, Adan was looking for me because one of the soldiers was in convulsions, so I had to go see to him. They had overdosed him with blood lotus, so I had to use a spell to help him. I beg pardon,” she repeated, limping forward. “I meant no disrespect to you or—or your guests,” she faltered, giving a slight bow towards Josephine and Cullen.

Cassandra let out a long breath, and Cullen could read the tremendous relief behind that simple gesture: it was rare she let anything shake her stoicism. Somehow this woman—this girl, really, Cullen amended as he looked at her—had done even more than gaining her trust. “You're limping,” Cassandra said, frowning to try and hide her relief.

“Boots are no good for climbing trees; I left them in the woods, but I know where they are. I wasn't careless with your equipment, only they were too heavy then. Anyway, I ended up on the chantry roof, and my magic was more depleted than I thought, so I just slid down into a snow bank. But there was a rock, and I hurt my foot.”

Leliana managed to keep an entirely blank expression, but Cassandra glanced toward the dripping boots beside the door, and the Herald followed her gaze. Her wide mouth pursed for just a moment, but she recovered quickly and turned to Leliana. “Please thank Scout Evans for saving me a return trip. I'm most grateful for his thoughtfulness.”

At that, Leliana's mouth fell open slightly, and Cullen felt a kind of satisfaction at seeing her embarrassed like that. It wasn't easy to get one over on the Left Hand, but the Herald had done it so easily and pleasantly that you could almost imagine it hadn't been intentional. Almost.

Cassandra stepped in hastily. “It is no matter—I'm glad you are here. These are Lady Josephine Montilyet, who will be serving as our ambassador, and Commander Cullen. He is a former Templar and will be leading the Inquisition forces.”

Those green eyes went slightly wider when Cassandra said the word “Templar,” and she fixed her eyes on Cullen as if he were a savage animal likely to pounce on her at any moment.

Josephine's grace smoothed the introduction, though. She stepped forward and curtsied. “It's a great honor to meet you, Herald. May I ask—dawn needles?” She peered at the foliage captured in the lap of the Herald's skirt.

The Herald bowed in return. “They're spruce needles—but these are gathered from the very top of the tree at the moment dawn's light first strikes them. So you can see why I didn't want to waste time going down one tree and up another. There are only a few minutes when they can be gathered, but they make a tonic that...it encourages,” she fumbled. “They drive out fear and despair. I thought it would be a good thing to have some.”

“A very good thing,” Cullen put in. “And I thank you, Herald, for your care for the soldiers. I had not been told you were a healer—or a master herbalist.”

“I am not a _master_ ,” she replied quickly. “But I am happy to use what skill I have, Commander. Only if you would please not call me that. I am Yvaleth of Clan Lavellan.” She was still watching him like something very dangerous, and it gave Cullen a strange pang to see her careless confidence taken from her by that one word. By him.

To try and show he meant no harm, he said, “Thank you, Lady Yvaleth. I'm honored.” Clumsily, he picked up the helmet that lay on the war table beside him and proffered it to her. “You could put them in there until we are done?”

There was a little flash of surprise in Yvaleth's gaze, and then she smiled. “Thank you, ma ser.” The smile was perhaps more pronounced that it might have ordinarily been, but the impulse behind it was genuine, he could swear, and he was surprised at how much it warmed him. He held out the helmet while she transferred handfuls of needles into it, then let her skirt drop, brushing her hands together.

Cassandra cleared her throat. “Speaking of Clan Lavellan, we have some _business_ regarding them that must be attended to.”

Yvaleth's eyes widened again, like a child called to task by a schoolmaster, and she came to stand at the war table, hands clasped behind her in a portrait of attentiveness. “Yes, Seeker?”

“We have received a letter from the Keeper of your Clan—Istimaethoriel? They have gained the false impression that we have imprisoned you against your will and are quite perturbed about it.” Leliana told her.

Yvaleth's lips pressed together tightly. “Then we must write and tell them they have only half the truth. I will do so directly.”

“Half the truth?” Cassandra asked, frowning again.

“Against my will is not true,” Yvaleth answered calmly. Her even speech was markedly different from the easy flow of her talk before, and from that Cullen could see how little she liked talking about her clan. Or maybe she just didn't like addressing the question of her 'imprisonment.' “And since this is only a formal inquiry to save face, done for honor's sake, I am sure they will be satisfied with that much. You need not concern yourselves.”

“So you think we have imprisoned you?” Leliana asked, sounding rather shrill.

“I think free men and women are allowed to gather herbs without a guard watching them,” Yvaleth replied sharply. “I think they can sit and work without someone watching every word they exchange. But do not mistake me—I understand.” She gave a little sigh on the last word. “Were I a sword needful to slay your mortal enemies, I should be guarded just the same. I take no offense, and _I choose_ to stay and serve. That is all that is important.”

“I can send a troop to deliver your message—to show that the Inquisition is not some ragtag group of bandits who have kidnapped you,” Cullen said.

“A _troop_?” Yvaleth repeated, and Cullen winced at the scorn in her voice. “My people want a basic reassurance that I am not being kept captive, and you want to send soldiers—what, to scare them into shutting up?”

Josephine quickly stepped in before Cullen could protest, trying to calm the troubled waters. “This is obviously a diplomatic matter—I can have a Dalish scribe send assurances with your letter.”

“They will respect a show of good will more,” Leliana said. “Let me have my elven agents bring them a gift with your message. Perhaps there is something your clan needs that we can provide?”

Yvaleth took a deep breath, while everyone else in the room held theirs, waiting to see if she would allow herself to be diverted from Cullen's gaffe. Finally she said, “Thank you, Sister Leliana, that is a wise suggestion. Perhaps some bolts of cloth, if some could be spared? Traders overprice such goods terribly when they deal with my people.”

“We'll go to the storehouses as soon as we're done and pick some fine cloths to send them,” Leliana said immediately. “I will make sure my agents know how to approach your clan respectfully and without threat.”

Yvaleth gave her a real smile, and Cullen felt jealous of it—and terribly ashamed. He'd spoken without thinking. Sending a troop had been his first impulse, and her angry outburst, especially after he'd seen her negotiate Leliana's spying with such aplomb, felt painful in a way he couldn't quite process. Of _course_ the Dalish mage didn't like him, what else could be expected? But from the moment she'd entered the room clutching her skirt full of spruce needles, breathless as she related her adventures, he'd stopped thinking of her as a Dalish mage, or even as the Herald. She was far too...much to be considered by such simple, confining names. Yvaleth—yes, she was Yvaleth, even if he'd instinctively put an honorific before it, holding her easy familiarity at bay.

And Yvaleth obviously despised him.

“Continuing,” Cassandra said, “We've had a message from Mother Giselle in the Hinterlands. Sister Leliana?”

“She's asked the Herald to come personally to meet with her. I think she wants to take your measure. Of course we have to weigh the risk of an ambush against the potential advantage of her blessing. Mother Giselle is known for her tireless work on behalf of the poor and sick; her voice would carry weight, not just within the Chantry, but among the ordinary people.”

“We can set up a forward camp,” Cassandra said, frowning. “But the war between Templars and mages has left the Hinterlands in chaos. There's no way to make it fully secure any time soon.”

“But if La—if the Herald went with a group that established new bases of operation in the Hinterlands, we could begin to bring the area under control. That would go a long way toward convincing people the Inquisition stands for order in the face of chaos.” Cullen didn't look at Yvaleth's face as he spoke, focusing his eyes on the map so he wouldn't have to see her scorn. Never mind that—he was here to do a job, and the job must be done.

“And I've had word of a number of rifts in the Hinterlands. Closing them should be a priority now that the Breach is relatively stable. The people barely surviving a civil war in their backyards don't exactly have resources to fight off a demonic incursion,” Leliana concluded.

“Herald?” Josephine said diplomatically. “What are your thoughts on the matter?”

Yvaleth looked up at her, and Cullen took advantage of her gaze being averted to watch her. She had a little frown of concentration on her face, but she answered readily enough. “Even if this Mother Giselle decides she doesn't like me, those rifts ought to be dealt with. The longer we leave any rift open, the more demons we have to clean up once they're sealed.” Then she turned to gaze steadily at Cassandra. “But the Seeker will have to decide if the 'security' that can be provided for the journey is adequate.”

Her meaning was plain, and it caused another awkward silence to fall upon the war room. Cullen wondered if she'd expressed displeasure with their security measures on her behalf before—from the way Cassandra and Leiliana were responding, he thought not. Well, it had to be reckoned with sooner or later, and he could hardly blame her for being uneasy in her current position.

“I will come with you myself,” Cassandra said finally. “Not to keep you from running away, as you imagine, but to guard you. There _will_ be demons around the rifts, and you will need help handling them. Perhaps Solas too...”

There was something uncertain in her speech—most unusual for the determined Seeker—and she said the last almost hopefully, like a peace offering. Solas, he supposed from the name, was the _other_ elven mage, the apostate Cassandra had told him of on his arrival, the one Yvaleth said had taught her to make ice bridges. It made sense to reassure Yvaleth with one of her own people among the party, and he hoped it was enough.

“I think he will come if we ask,” Yvaleth said finally. “But his forte is not really offensive magics; perhaps Master Varric would be willing to come as well?”

Cassandra made a little “ugh” sound, but she nodded anyway. “That is a good choice. He can pick them off from a distance.”

Yvaleth nodded. “Then when do we leave?”

“In three days,” Cassandra said, now all business. “We cannot be ready before then, and I need to consult with Commander Cullen while he takes over our military operations.”

“I'll send scouts to find a good location for the forward camp,” Leliana said. “They can at least gather information about any threats in the immediate area.”

“Good.” Cassandra nodded. “Any other business, then?”

There was silence, and so Leliana moved around the table to Yvaleth. “I think there's some samite in the storehouses—you'll have to tell me what your people will find most useful.”

“May I come?” Josephine put in. “You have such lovely hair, Herald—have you ever considered braids to keep it clear from your face? Something just a little more polished, perhaps...”

The three of them left the war room, so that only Cassandra and Cullen were left. “Well, that was...” Cullen rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Is she always so blunt?”

“No,” Cassandra answered. “But she is difficult to read. She agreed to help so readily I had no idea she considered herself my prisoner...”

“Even though I understand she awoke after the Conclave's destruction in manacles facing your interrogation?” Cullen lifted an eyebrow.

“Yes, but I took them off! I even let her keep a staff she had found. I—I trust her,” Cassandra said grudgingly. “But she sees me as only a captor.”

“Is that better or worse than being considered a mage-killer who wants to terrorize her people?” Cullen quipped. “I haven't made the best first impression myself.”

“I will try to show her respect on this trip. She has given us herself without reserve, without concern for her own safety. She was unconscious for three days after she stabilized the Breach, and Solas says it was because she drained her magic to do it. We cannot lead the Inquisition without some trust among the leadership.”

Cullen nodded, though it provided no likelihood of Yvaleth disliking _him_ any less in the near future. His gaze dropped to his helmet—with Leliana and Josephine distracting her, she had left her spruce needles behind. “And I'll do what I can,” he said, picking up the helmet. “Though I suspect what she wants most is to never see me again.”

 

***

 

But the moment Cullen left the war room, he was besieged with work to be done, decisions to be made. None of them could be put off, and so for the next two hours he carried his helmet full of spruce needles around—to some rather odd looks from his soldiers—and dealt with the immediate needs of the Inquisition's forces.

When he finally had a moment to breathe, he went to look for Yvaleth. It seemed important to go himself rather than simply sending a runner—to show her respect, as Cassandra had said. He decided to try the apothecary first. There, Adan sourly directed him to a nearby rocky ledge, with a warning not to give her any bright ideas about doing anything for the rest of the day.

And so Cullen found Yvaleth, perched on a ledge overlooking much of Haven, surrounded by various bowls and bags and with her lap full of herbs. Her hair was now twisted up in a tight crown braid that made a gleaming halo about her head. She looked up as he approached, and said, “I hope you haven't come to give me a lecture. I'm full up today—perhaps tomorrow I could hear it?” Despite the lightness of her words, her face was wary and not particularly friendly.

Cullen came to stand beside her. “I hadn't planned on it. Who's been lecturing you? The apothecary?”

Yvaleth nodded. “He and Solas took turns peeling strips off me after I got out of the meeting. For wearing myself out with 'careless magic use' and spraining my ankle.” She nodded towards the large wrapping around her left foot.

Cullen gave a gruff laugh. “No man—or woman—is a hero to their healer. That's something I've learned firsthand.”

“And most heroic actions don't end with sliding down the chantry roof on your backside,” she agreed.

Cullen set his helmet down beside her. “I brought you these. I meant to come sooner, but these new recruits can't piss without an officer's supervision.” He took in a deep breath, steeling himself. “And I came to apologize. My suggestion was...ridiculous. If I'd thought for half a moment I would have seen how foolish it was to imagine a Dalish clan would be pleased by the approach of a human troop.”

She was still watching him, just as cautiously as before, for all her apparent playfulness, and Cullen squatted down beside her so she wouldn't have crane her neck to peer up at him. “I suppose it would be too ironic for me to bear a grudge for hasty words and impulsive behavior,” Yvaleth said finally, and there was something more genuine about the way she said it. She reached into his helmet and began taking out the spruce needles, carefully transferring them into one of her bags. “I've been told it's my principle aptitude.”

“I think Corporal Hollen would disagree,” Cullen said quietly. “The medics were very impressed with how you handled those convulsions.”

She nodded, not quite deflecting the compliment, but not really accepting it either. “Some people are sensitive to blood lotus. A lot of healers, after someone's been wounded, they just dose them and dose them to help them build up their strength again. Nine times out of ten, it's all right—sloppy and wasteful, but all right—but some people have a much lower tolerance, and then that happens. I'm glad I could help him.”

“Is there—is there anything I can do for you?” Cullen offered. It came out awkwardly, but he was surprised to realize how much he meant it.

Her face shuttered directly. “I don't need anyone killed or made Tranquil, thank you. Even if Solas does lecture, I'd rather he be alive enough to do it.”

Damn and blast—back to square one. The dangerous templar. “I am good for other things,” he protested.

Yvaleth cocked her head to one side. “Like what?”

Honestly, what else _was_ he good for? He might have an army at his disposal, but killing was indeed their main use. “If...if you had a caravan, and it got stuck in the mud, my men would have it out right away,” he said lamely. “And if you had a hole in your roof, I would send someone up to repair it.”

She laughed then, real amusement flashing through her wariness. “My thanks, Commander. If I ever have a caravan or a leaky roof, I will come to you first.”

Cullen returned a tentative smile. “I'm not a templar anymore, Her—Lady Yvaleth. I have no quarrel with you. I wanted you to know that.”

“If you would really have no quarrel with me, then call me Yvaleth, please. It is more respectful, after all, to use my name without inventing silly titles or attaching bits to it that don't belong to me. Doesn't it suggest, after all, that what I actually am isn't enough?”

He took a deep breath. “Yvaleth. I'm sorry.”

“And I suppose I am too. Bringing up the Tranquil was unnecessary. You can see why I do better with a lapful of crystal grace to keep me company.” She dipped her head, and Cullen found himself entranced with the way the light slid over her hair. It must be like silk to shine so...

Definitely not what he should say to her. “You handled Leliana very well.” Cullen wobbled and winced as one of his tendons started to cramp from squatting for so long.

She caught his wince and said, “You don't have to stay here. I accept your apology, Commander.”

“No, just—may I sit down?” He probably should have taken the hint and left, but there was something in her...something bright and curious that he couldn't quite turn away from. Something more than the glorious smooth hair, more even than the sweet green eyes that could turn angry in a heartbeat.

“ _Can_ you sit down in that?” she asked doubtfully, nodding at his breastplate.

Since the answer was more or less “no,” Cullen stood and unbuckled it, then lowered himself beside her, swinging his legs out over the edge. Nodding to the herbs in her lap, he said, “Can I help with that?”

“Oh, well...” She thought for a moment, then shrugged and handed him a bag of dried embrium. “Just cut the stems off and throw away any that smell funny or look like they might have rotted before they dried. Put them in that bowl.”

He picked up a little knife and began to obey, clumsy but willing. “You were a healer for your clan?” he prompted. “They must miss your skill.”

That made her face tighten again. “I was _apprenticed_ to a healer, no more. And if they were like to miss my skill, I should not have been sent to the Conclave. We Dalish are...very careful with what we value. But as I am two and twenty and notable for nothing more than having a great many very bad ideas...here I am.”

“How bad?” Cullen asked, trying to imagine how anyone could fail to hold dear the brightness that shone in her, even behind her efforts to hide herself away.

“Not so very bad, I hope. Nothing wicked. More of the 'I'm sure I can make friends with a bear' variety. I was good at foraging, though, and making draughts from the things I found, so when my magic began to show, they gave me to Healer Brenna to be apprenticed to her. She did her best to teach me.”

Cullen didn't answer. He was too busy watching her face. The brightness and the quick mind, held behind ready defenses, it reminded him of something...and when he remembered, for a moment it hurt so much he couldn't breathe. _Neria_...

“What is it?” Yvaleth asked quickly, with a healer's sense for discomfort and pain. She might call herself inept at the art, but he could tell she had all the instincts of a seasoned medic—maybe more.

“Nothing. I...” He let out a long, slow breath, then admitted the truth. “You remind me of someone.”

She regarded him quietly for a moment, her big green eyes searching on his face. “Someone who hurt you?”

He shook his head. “Much worse than that. She was...the first person I ever really failed. But she never failed me—she never failed anyone.”

“Tell me?” Yvaleth said softly. “If you will, if it does not hurt you too much. I—I know I have been hasty, but I am not...” She trailed off and seemed to be trying to find the right words, but finally only said, “I would hear, if you wish to speak of her.”

“No,” Cullen said, his voice too quick, too harsh. Seeing the hurt look on her face, he forced himself to go on. “I'm sorry. In truth, I can scarcely think of her still.”

Yvaleth's face was clouded for a moment, but then it brightened again. “Since I got here,” she said, leaning over to pull a bug-eaten petal off the embrium he was trimming, “people have been giving me titles that are not mine. And then they expect me to be the things they call me as if I were something they'd made up out of their own imaginations. You call me healer—maybe someday, you will speak to me of her, and I will heal the pain.”

Her smile was strangely sweet, and as wholly impossible as it seemed to have that hurt taken from him, Cullen could almost believe that someday she would.

 


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Dread Wolf pricks his ears, and Cullen is not very good at keeping secrets.

Yvaleth felt strangely cheered by Commander Cullen's mid-morning visit. It meant something that he had been willing to come and apologize, meant something that he had been willing to sit and enter into her work. Even some of her own people saw herbalism as “messing around with flowers,” with no understanding of the subtle skill it took to harvest and process the plants correctly—all that before you began preparing any kind of simple or elixir from them! She still felt wary of him; she didn't like that all his first impulses were military. And she felt wary, too, at how easily he'd made her let her guard down. In half an hour's talk, he'd made her talk more about herself than any of the other humans of the Inquisition.

But the vulnerability seemed to go both ways. She could tell he hadn't meant to speak of Neria, didn't imagine he ever spoke of something that hurt him so badly. Yet even if he hadn't told her who Neria was or how he'd failed her, he'd been open enough to show her where the chinks in _his_ armor lay. It made her feel warm and protective towards him. Slow to answer to flattery or even friendship, Yvaleth was irresistibly drawn to those who needed her, eager to help and comfort.

She replayed their conversation over and over again in her mind, and it comforted her when it got too cold to sit outside any longer and she had to go into the apothecary to finish her work. She knew that, theoretically, it was ridiculous for the “Herald of Andraste” to spend her days doing what would usually be the work of the apothecary's lowliest apprentice. Even Adan had been quizzical at first, though eager to accept her assistance when he saw her skill. But herbs had been her first friends, before any others, and even when they were dried or soaking in a bottle, she could still hear the soft and subtle songs that had enchanted her girlhood. Gathering the dawn needles had been the greatest pleasure she'd had since arriving in Haven.

Though that had ended badly, only making her foolish enough to face down Leliana about her secret guards, snap at Cullen, and accuse Cassandra of keeping her prisoner. It didn't matter that everything she had said was true. Yvaleth had learned long ago how little people liked the truth thrown in their faces. “Kindness is stronger than truth,” Keeper Istimaethoriel had chided her, over and over, but it seemed Yvaleth still hadn't taken the lesson to heart.

The guilt made her determined to try harder. She hadn't been kind, and they were trying, as well as they could, to be kind to her. So that evening, instead of begging a loaf from the kitchens and slipping away, Yvaleth forced herself to stand in line in the mess for a bowl of thick, greasy stew with everyone else. She'd panicked when it was time to sit, feeling so many eyes on her; some were covert, some less so. But to Yvaleth's surprise, one of the recruits, a human woman, waved her over. Shy, but grateful for the sign of welcome, Yvaleth immediately hurried towards her.

“Recruit Lysette,” the woman said. Her eyes on Yvaleth were eager and curious, but not unkind. “I daresay you won't remember.”

Yvaleth chewed her lip, but offered hesitantly, “You were...one of the templars. In the mountain pass near the Temple of Ashes. I am glad to see you well.” With her eyes fixed on her stew, she dug her spoon in and forced herself not to wince at its thick, viscous texture.

“And you're the one who saved our lives. The Herald of Andraste.” There was no aggression in Lysette's voice, but there _was_ a kind of challenge, a question. The other recruits at the table were watching her with a similar wariness, waiting to see how she would answer.

“I don't know,” Yvaleth said. “Does Andraste have a sense of humor?”

Lysette blinked. “Good question—she's called Our Lady of Sorrow, so not much for merriment, really. But the Maker surely does, and I suppose his Bride must laugh with him.”

Yvaleth dipped her head. “Then perhaps I am a jest offered for her lord's amusement.” Or perhaps Mythal the Protector had sent her to teach the humans about justice and mercy—but Yvaleth kept that to herself.

Lysette stared for a moment, then broke the tension with a hearty laugh. She broke a loaf of dark bread and passed half to Yvaleth. “You're all right, anyway, whatever you are.”

And after that, Yvaleth had been able to sit and quietly listen to the recruits' easy banter without having to put in more than a word here and there. She had not meant to come and make friends among the soldiers—she had meant more to seek out Cassandra and Leliana. But having done so, in however preliminary a way, seemed just as important an achievement. These women and men would perhaps be asked to _die_ one day in the service of the Inquisition. And if the others persisted in holding Yvaleth up like a war banner, then she'd rather they didn't snarl at the sight of her.

Still, she ate as quickly as she could, then excused herself. Her stomach was roiling from the heavy fare. Her own clan had meat only occasionally, and nothing Yvaleth had eaten in her life had prepared her for an overboiled pot of Fereldan stew. The result was almost half a dozen trips to the crude latrines—for Yvaleth had been horrified when one of the servants told her what the chamber pot was for, finding the idea of keeping a bowl of one's own soil under the bed nauseating. She gnawed fresh juniper berries and made a tea of bitter green herbs, but since she had no strong tincture or potion on hand, the acute digestive distress seemed to be winning the night.

After yet _another_ trip down the hill, while Yvaleth was crouched by her hearth wrapped in two blankets, shivering and wondering whether it was worth the trouble to drag her exhausted body to Adan and see if he had something stronger, a light tapping came on her door. “Come in,” she croaked, too tired and cold to bother with any kind of caution.

It was Solas who entered. “I saw the light in your window, and saw you slipping back and forth. Have you not had enough of life's adventures today that you must cram them into the hours for rest?”

His tone—mild but disapproving—got Yvaleth's back up, and she scowled as she turned back to the fire. “I'm not a baby too stupid to know I need sleep. But tell that to their cook.” She winced and hugged her midsection tighter as another cramp twisted her bowels. “I feel like I'm going to die.”

“Many have died of Fereldan cookery,” Solas said, in the deadpan way he had. “But I hope you are at least stronger than that foe, mighty as it is.”

“It's not funny!” Yvaleth groaned. “My insides are water, and I can barely drag myself to the latrine.”

Solas crouched down beside her, laying his palm against her hot cheek. It felt wonderful, cool and dry, and Yvaleth had to stop herself from leaning into his hand like a lonely cat. “What have you taken for it?”

“Juniper and rashvine nettle.” She nodded to a large mug of greenish liquid. “I've been sipping it all night, but it's not doing any good.”

“Next time eat the juniper first. Better yet, go to the kitchen and ask the servants for a bowl of the vegetable pottage they are eating themselves.”

Of course—in this place, elven food was servant food. “I'll remember that—if I survive this.”

“May I?”

“Please,” Yvaleth said readily.

“Then open your mouth.”

“What?” Yvaleth had never heard of any kind of magic that required her mouth to be open. She kept her mouth closed, staring at him mistrustfully, though she did not pull away.

“Or you can wait an hour for the spell to work through all the rest of your system into your digestion. It is your choice. The most effective healing spells target the affected system.” Solas still held one hand to her cheek, and his gaze was steady on her face. Calm, logical, yet there was an odd glint of...something...in his eyes as he waited to see if she would obey.

Another hour of this, and she'd probably pass out on her way back from the latrine. Yvaleth let her mouth fall just slightly open. Solas lifted his other hand and pressed two fingers to her tongue, then began murmuring.

At first, Yvaleth couldn't focus on anything beyond the strangeness of his fingers in her mouth, but then a sense of coolness began to spread from his touch, slipping down her throat and into the bubbling pit of her stomach. Almost immediately, the cramping stopped, and the sense of roiling and twisting subsided. She still felt exhausted and worn out, but all the pain and distress was gone. Yvaleth gave a little whimper of relief as her cramping muscles relaxed.

“ _Ma serannen_ ,” she breathed, as soon as Solas withdrew his fingers. “I _might_ live.”

“You might.” Yet Solas still hadn't withdrawn his other hand from her cheek, and his thumb stroked the lines of her vallaslin under her eyes. “You poor child. Bearing chains you don't even comprehend.”

At that, Yvaleth's drooping eyelids flew up, and she jerked away from his hand, glaring at him. “ _Chains_? I bear Mythal's own markings, you don't know—you don't know anything! You're just a—a city elf,” she amended, even in her anger unwilling to hurl slurs at him.

“I know whose markings they are. Very proper for a young girl,” he said, mockingly. “You have no conception...”

“You and my mother would get along famously,” she spat. “She, too, tried to refuse me my markings. She said the daughter of Fen'harel should have none.”

Solas hadn't looked really angry up until that point, but at those words, his eyes narrowed, and danger radiated from him. “What did you say?” he hissed.

“Oh, don't worry, my deluded devotion doesn't extend quite so far as believing that. It was merely her way of reminding her that I was her misfortune. That I was born of betrayal and force, not love.” If she hadn't been so angry, Yvaleth would have shut up much sooner, but she had been so relaxed under his comforting touch, and then his words had fallen on her like a bucket of ice water.

He relaxed all at once when she said that, and she wondered why the words had upset him so much. “Do you really think me _that_ credulous, _hahren_?” she asked, wondering if he'd been angry to think her so stupid. They had talked about the _elvhen_ gods before, and he had expressed his own disbelief, but never been so forthright in disapproving her views.

“No—though maybe it is a pity. The Daughter of Fen'harel: it would make such a good title for the epic Varric is already writing about you.” Solas stood up, but he leaned down to offer Yvaleth his hand.

She accepted it, feeling a little chastened, but also glad he'd stopped talking about her markings. “Since when did a legend require truth? Mind, when I was a little girl, I _did_ believe it. I used to pray to Fen'harel. I thought he might be flattered, since no one else talks to him.”

“A pleasingly cynical analysis, worthy of Fen'harel himself. I applaud your youthful cunning. What did you pray to him, may I ask?”

“The same things any unhappy child prays for. To take me somewhere else. To make me someone else.” Yvaleth was too tired to either dissimulate or object, as probing as the question was. She almost toppled onto her bed, dragging the blankets haphazardly over herself. She gave a huge yawn. “I stopped once I realized how a god of misfortune might bring those things about.”

“And yet here you are, the Herald of Andraste. Perhaps the Dread Wolf heard you after all?” He grinned, and for an instant, there was again something dangerous in him—all the more dangerous for being strangely playful. But it was gone in a moment, and Yvaleth thought she must have only imagined it. Then he said, “Sleep, _da'len_. Our discussions on theology can wait.”

He was answered with nothing more than a sleepy mumble, for Yvaleth was already sinking into the sleep so long deferred.

 

***

 

The next morning Yvaleth felt much more like herself, but also uncomfortable at how much she had revealed to Solas the night before. And even though, as with Cullen, she felt as if Solas had revealed himself too, it didn't feel like an honest offering of self in the way the clumsy templar's words about the woman he had failed did. It felt...unsettling, honestly.

Yvaleth was saved from any need to face him by the delivery of a new coat. Harrit the smith brought it himself, beaming with pride. “Proper mage coat, eh? Just like they wear at the Circle.” She knew he didn't mean any harm, so she pretended pleasure in it, but made an excuse about “wanting to honor her people” to go down to the smith's and begin altering it.

Yvaleth was there, sitting outside the warmth of the forge, with her head bent over the heavy silk coat when Cullen approached her. She'd been watching him part of the time, interested to see how he interacted with his officers and recruits, how the recruits brightened and vied all the harder under his demanding gaze. They liked him, she thought. And they couldn't see, as Yvaleth did, the pain suppressed in every gesture, even in his smiles. What was wrong with him? An old wound ill healed?

“Shall I add tailor to the list of 'titles I give you which are not yours'?” Cullen teased, nodding down at the coat in her hands.

“It would be even less apt than the rest. I'm terrible at needlework. But...” She gestured him to lean closer, like a child with a secret, and when he did, she whispered, “They made it for a human woman's dimensions. I am taking it in, but embroidering it so they won't realize. They think I'm just being frivolous. But I didn't want to hurt Harrit's feelings, he was so proud of it.”

“It's...too big?” he replied, keeping his voice soft.

“A bit...roomy in the chest,” Yvaleth confessed, her cheeks coloring. They darkened even more when Cullen's gaze darted down to her own chest, then widened as he realized what he'd done and looked away.

“Your—your embroidery is very lovely, though. I'm going to keep a list of things you tell me you're terrible at so I know what to ask you to do,” he said, and she was glad for the turn of the conversation.

“And I shall make a list of things over which you are shamefully easily impressed,” she retorted. But she smiled at him all the same and added, “Will you sit with me only a moment, Commander?”

Cullen glanced back at the recruits, sweating despite the chill air. “Only a moment. It doesn't do to let them see me dawdling.” But he sat down beside her all the same, after loosening his breastplate slightly.

“I understand—the Commander must be that to which they aspire.” Yvaleth cast him a cautious, sideways look, unsure how to bring up what she wanted to say. “I only wanted to be sure...that is...your own healers are helping you all they can? I do not mean to pry, only it hurts you all the time, and some men are foolish about seeking help.”

At once his attitude of gentle indulgence stiffened. “Cassandra told you, I see,” he said, his teeth gritted. “Your concern is kind, but the only cure for my condition, I will not take. As I am sure you are aware. Excuse me.” And he stood up abruptly.

She flinched from his sudden accusatory hardness. Without even considering, she reached out to catch at his hand. “No, please...I didn't mean to upset you. Cassandra told me nothing, no one tells me anything, you know that!”

Cullen stared down at her, his golden brown eyes still angry, but he didn't pull away from her hand. “Then how did you know?”

“I only know you are in pain!” she said, still pitching her voice low, despite her distress. “Your shoulders are tight, and the little line between your brows. How you bite your cheek when a sword hits your shield hard, or how you brace yourself for a blow that should be of little consequence to a man of your strength. And...and I only thought to be sure your healers were helping you. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to anger you, please.” Yvaleth hated the look of betrayal on his face, especially when she had no idea what secret she had accidentally stumbled on. She swallowed, no more comfortable with her own pleading tones, but the sudden anger had entirely unsettled her.

His brow knitted as he stared at her, but finally he said, “Go back up to your house. I will come in an hour. By your leave, my lady.”

“If you wish it...or...or I will never speak of it again. I'm sorry,” she repeated.

“I will come in an hour,” he said again, his face still hard and displeased, and when Yvaleth nodded miserably, he strode away. She noticed after that, he wasn't content to offer pointers to the recruits or merely model a block, but began pressing them hard himself, and she thought there would be more than a couple of sprained wrists for Adan to look at that evening.

But she stayed only a little longer there, guessing he would not like her disappearance to be too closely linked to her conversation with him, and then she took spools of green and white silk and retreated to her house. What could he want to talk about? What did he think Cassandra had told her? And why, oh why, had she thought it would be all right to ask him about something he plainly didn't want known?

Cullen came, as promised, an hour later, rapping smartly on the door. Yvaleth flew to it, letting her sewing fall to the floor. He stood there, ill at ease, and wouldn't look at her face. “May I come in?”

“Of course—of course. M-may I offer you something? There is a jar of wine here, or I can put the kettle on.” Yvaleth found herself babbling to try and hide her discomfort.

He shook his head curtly, and he waited while she resettled herself with her sewing, pacing slightly. “I spoke to Cassandra. She agreed—she agreed I ought to tell you the truth. You said yourself we never tell you anything, and...you ought to know the state of forces, given the decisions you're having to make. The state of their commander.”

“If you wish it, I will hear,” Yvaleth said in a small voice. “Only _I_ wish I had not said anything at all. Kindness is stronger than truth—my Keeper used to say that, and I should have it inscribed in blood writing. Just...I did mean to be kind, Commander.”

Cullen's face softened just a little. “I know. And I'm—I'm sorry I accused you like that. The truth is...” He blew out a long breath. “You know about how templars are given lyrium? To give them the abilities that suppress magic in others?”

“I had heard, yes.”

“Then you know what lyrium does to someone who...who isn't like you, who has no magic of their own. It's why the Chantry controls the supply of lyrium so tightly. Both to make sure it doesn't fall into the wrong hands, and to control the templars. It suits them to have an army of obedient addicts,” he said bitterly.

Yvaleth's mouth fell open slightly as she began to understand. “But...you're not the only templar here. Lysette, and all the others...”

He waved his hand. “We've been able to secure a supply, thankfully. But I...I have stopped taking it. I told Cassandra, when I joined the Inquisition. She agreed to watch me, to make the call to replace me if the effects of withdrawal compromised my ability to serve too greatly. And when you said 'it' hurts me all the time, I thought you knew.”

Yvaleth only shook her head. “I thought...I thought it was an old war wound, Commander. I would never have thrown that in your face, never.”

“I know. You can imagine, though, that I wasn't pleased to know my weakness was so obvious.”

“Not weakness!” she protested. “Only pain. And only because I have been trained to watch for it.”

“In battle, pain is weakness,” he responded curtly. “Cassandra refuses to take the command from me, but you showed me how little my strength can be trusted.”

“That's not true!” Yvaleth's sewing fell to the floor, and she stood up and reached out to catch his arm, stopping him mid-pace. “Pain is weakness if you can't fight through it. You _do_. Every soldier who has seen battle has some pain, some stiffness. Would you give command to a recruit of twenty just because he hasn't been hurt serving yet? That's ridiculous!”

“You sound like Cassandra,” he said, smiling just a little at her. “I'm surprised you two aren't better friends.”

“You're surprised a Chantry Seeker isn't friends with an _elvhen_ mage? The world you live in must be very pretty, Commander.” She still hadn't released his arm. “But...does this mean your healers don't know? That they aren't helping you?”

“To be seen seeking healing again and again...you said before I should be that which they aspire to. A broken old man hardly fits that description.” He looked down at her hand on his arm, and just as Yvaleth was about to withdraw it, self-conscious of her ardent little gesture, he laid his gloved hand over it. “It means something that you cared enough to ask, Yvaleth. I'm not ungrateful. I'm only sorry I behaved so badly.”

“We are too stupidly alike,” Yvaleth said, smiling hopefully up at him. “Our minds do not rule our tongues as they ought. But...can I not help you, Commander? I would not tell a soul, I promise...”

His lips quirked. “And what will they think about my slipping off to see _you_ time and again?”

“Probably that you are bedding me,” she replied immediately, without considering. “But I don't care if only I could help.”

His face filled with color, and he withdrew his hand from hers, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Maker's breath. Have a care, Yvaleth.”

She pulled away quickly, made ashamed by his evident shame. “I'm sorry, that was—was stupid,” she stammered. “Of course that would reflect badly on you as much as—no, of course much worse than visiting the healers.” She retreated to her stool and picked up her sewing, holding it close like a lifeline, wishing she could pull the coat over her head and simply _disappear._

“On _me_?” Cullen seemed dumbfounded. “Have you no care for what they say about you?”

“It would probably be much nicer than what they say about me now. But you're right. I suppose 'the Commander's knife-ear whore' isn't quite what the Inquisition wants to project of its pet Herald.” Her voice was brittle and icy, and she felt as if shards of that ice were driving themselves into her heart.

“You're angry because I want to protect you from idle gossip?” he demanded, and Yvaleth was pleased to see that he seemed angry now. It was easier if he was angry too, made her own defenses stronger, took away that strange temptation to burst into tears or offer him soft words.

“If you are so very concerned about gossip, ma ser, then you have already lingered too long here.” But as angry as she was, Yvaleth couldn't help setting aside her sewing and rummaging in a basket full of pouches, each full of herbs. Many were things that couldn't be gathered here, and she was fairly sure that even if he did trust his healers to help him, they would not know the goodness of some of them, since their attitude towards herb gathering was haphazard at best. They seemed to think any hour of the day, any weather, as good as any other to gather, and most of their herbs were less than half as potent as they might have been if culled by an experienced hand.

She found the black pouch she wanted and thrust it at him. “Midnight witherstalk root. Hold a piece in your mouth and chew it slowly. It will wither your pain.” He didn't take it immediately, and her anger rose again. “I have not enchanted it, you need not fear my sorcery. The properties are the herb's own. It will not make you drowsy like lotus. If you are so very eager to be strong for your precious Inquisition, Commander, then take your medicine like a big boy.”

He took it from her then, though his color had gone from golden to red and now to something approaching purple, and she could tell he was as furious as she was. He saluted. “Herald,” he said, as expressionlessly as a man purple with fury could, then turned on his heel and walked out.

 


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen endures some teasing from an old frienemy

Cullen spent the following two days avoiding Yvaleth all that was humanly possible—which wasn't nearly as much as he would have liked, given that Cassandra insisted on lengthy war room consultations to plan out their strategy in the Hinterlands. Cullen buried himself in the details, rattling off tasks to be accomplished—strategic campsites, the need to gain Horsemaster Dennet's assistance, and the need for more materials for banners and field tents. Despite his probably peremptory way of issuing orders, Yvaleth gave no sign of her previous anger in front of the others, and he was glad, for the Inquisition's sake, to see she had at least that much command of herself. He couldn't fathom why she had been so furious with him. And 'Commander's knife-ear whore'? He almost wanted to ask where she had learned such language. Could someone have said something where she heard it? But she seemed to get along with the recruits swimmingly, even the templars who would have ordinarily been skeptical of a mage. Word of how she had healed Corporal Hollen, even while injured herself, had spread among them, and they talked about her almost as if she were Andraste returned instead of her “Herald.”

It was almost enough to make Cullen wonder if she _had_ been suggesting something...romantic, to turn on him in such fury when he responded negatively. Did she think he had spurned her? But when he called up the gentle openness of her demeanor before then, he couldn't believe it. There had been nothing seductive about her behavior. She had only spoken of bedding as if it were something ridiculous people might say. Something they would talk about rather than his confounded weakness.

But however Cullen turned it round in his mind, one fact was depressingly plain: she now despised him even more than she had on their first meeting. And he had now no helmet full of herbs to take to her, no peace offering to make. Only a pouch of bitter root that worked astonishingly well on the headaches and even eased some of the aches from his stiff muscles.

It was the night before Yvaleth's departure when Varric came to him, looking suspiciously pleased and curious. As one of Varric's favorite targets for teasing, Cullen was instantly wary. “What do you want?”

“Want? Why nothing. Our Herald sent me. Care to share why she's using me as a go-between? What did you do, Curly, accuse her of blood magic?”

“I—no.” Cullen took a deep breath, trying to calm the immediate agitation. Varric was too damned good at stirring him up. “I did not accuse her of blood magic. What does she want?”

Varric held out a pouch and a sealed note. The wax seal bore the imprint of a leaf—not a leaf design, but an actual leaf. Cullen supposed she had no seal of her own, but had seen them on official documents, and grabbed the first thing she had to hand. It would have made him smile, if he hadn't been so terrified about what the note might contain.

Seeing Cullen's hesitation, Varric said, “It probably won't blow up on you. Though she did say she'd freeze my fingers off if I tried to read it. Maybe she was protecting me from whatever she has planned for you?”

“Don't be an _ass_ ,” Cullen growled and, realizing he was making himself more ridiculous with his hesitation, he snatched the pouch and note. “Thank you.”

“Aren't you gonna read it, Curly?” Varric was grinning and obviously enjoying himself way too much. “Maybe then you can tell me why she sent me instead of coming herself? If it were Cassandra or Josephine, I could see it—they're too aristocratic to run their own messages. But she's not like that. So either she's mad at you, or you're mad at her, and either way she's sending you a present. What gives?”

Cullen made a pained noise. “She was probably just worried about the...propriety of coming to my tent in the evening. As she should be. She thinks too little of such matters.”

He could have cut his tongue off after he'd said it. Why _had_ he said it? He knew better than anyone else not to give Varric ammunition, yet he was still so annoyed at Yvaleth's angry dismissal that he hadn't been able to help himself. “Not enough propriety? Curly, did she _scare_ you?” Varric asked, eyes bright and happy as a feastday morning.

“It—it wasn't like that. She wasn't even thinking of...and I would _never._ ” Andraste's toenails, he was only making things worse. Cullen tried to calm down and find a way to right the matter. “We had a disagreement, all right, you scandal-mongering hack? But it was purely based on a misunderstanding. She's very...innocent.”

It didn't help. Of course it didn't help. Varric only looked more amused. “Excuse me, I meant _scared you shitless_ ,” he snickered. “I guess even Andraste's Herald isn't immune to a pretty face.”

“Can anything I say interrupt whatever ridiculous narrative you're building in your head? Just—you mustn't talk about her like that. It's all wrong, whatever your gutter-dwelling mind may imagine. If we did have a misunderstanding, it was just that. She would never...she's not—not like that. Only too good hearted and pure to consider...”

That did stop Varric, but unsurprisingly didn't put an end to Cullen's torment. “She's got you shook good, huh, Curly? Do you want me to go ask for a favor to tie to your lance so your honorable intentions will be plain? I'd be _more_ than happy.”

The washbasin Cullen aimed at Varric's head might not have disabused the dwarf of whatever foul ideas he was brewing in there, but it did at least make him disappear, and Cullen slumped down on his cot gracelessly, still staring at the note and the pouch. Finally, deciding it was better to get all his humiliation over with at once, he opened the note.

 

_Comander Cullen,_

_Plees forgiv me sending Varric. I couldn't think of anyone else Lelyana wouldn't be likly to intersept, and even though I'm sure she knos, her scouts dont, I hop. I was too ~~angry~~ huried to realize you are also probably having truble sleeping. This is dawn lotus, and so while it  will make you sleep, you will be refreshed and abl to attend to your dutys better in the morning. Place one blosom in a large drinking bowl and pour steeming, not boiling, water over it and let it steep until it is the color of sun gilded morning mist. If you are having an espeshally bad night, you can eat the blosom afterward._

~~_I'm sorry. I didn't think_ ~~

_Yours faithfully,_

_Yvaleth Lavellan_

 

Her handwriting was labored, and it touched him to think how much time she must have spent penning that brief note, her diction careful and graceful even with all the misspellings. More that she had been generous enough to send him more herbs after he'd spent two days avoiding her eyes and loading her down with tasks for her journey. _Maker, would he ever meet a woman he had even the capacity to be worthy of?_ The thought jarred him, and he stopped short, still holding her note in his hand.

Where had that come from? Varric's insinuations, probably. But if he was honest with himself, he couldn't help realizing there had been more than a little truth. “She's got you shook good...” So she did, and Cullen wondered what kind of strange masochism held sway over his soul that his “type” could fairly be described as “exceptionally talented women who very properly despised him.”

Yet still Yvaleth had sent a peace offering, bridged the gap he had been incapable of trying to traverse. And even if she had only done so to be friendly, or preserve peace within the Inquisition, he couldn't let her leave without in some sense returning the gesture. He would see her off tomorrow. In Cassandra's presence, they wouldn't really be able to talk, but it would be something. And perhaps a good night's sleep would make the whole matter seem less terrifying. Cullen put on the kettle, smiling down at the phrase “sun gilded morning mist.”

 

***

 

It was still dark when Cullen arrived at the stables where four horses stood saddled and ready, waiting to be loaded for the journey. The groom was absent, and he frowned slightly, making a note to dress the lad down properly later. No matter how docile the mounts were, they should be attended. He was just darkly considering the scathing words he would use when a little sound from a dark corner of one of the stalls caught his attention. Without hesitating, he drew his sword as he approached the stall. “Who's there?”

It proved to be an elven woman— _not_ Yvaleth, but one of the servants, clutching a parcel wrapped in cloth in both her hands and looking terrified. “I'm sorry, ser! I didn't mean any harm, I swear it! I only came early to—to put this in the Herald's saddle bags.”

“If you didn't mean any harm, why are you hiding? What is that, a tracking talisman?” he demanded, still suspicious. “If it was something she wanted, why not just give it to her?”

“No! I—only to show we're behind her.” The woman held out the parcel desperately.

Looking suspicious, Cullen sheathed his sword—he could hardly classify the frightened servant as an active threat—and unwrapped the parcel. A little wisp of steam rose up from a flat seed cake, still fragrant from the oven.

“The Lady Cassandra gave orders for the provisions, but it was all things like dried mutton strips and onions,” the woman continued in a quavering voice. “Only the Herald gets sick on such stuff. She comes into the kitchens most nights to get her food from us, for the stew gives her a sour belly. So I just thought I'd put something in she could eat. It's not poison, ser, I swear it. I'll eat it myself if you don't believe me.”

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. Had he offended one of the elven deities that their women were constantly making a fool of him? Probably. Probably all of them. He thrust the seed cake back at the servant. “I believe you. Put it in her saddlebag—she'll be on the bay mare. I'm sorry I frightened you.”

She bobbed a curtsy, looking relieved, and did as he said before fleeing the stables. Cullen busied himself with checking girths and shortening the bay mare's stirrups so they'd be a more comfortable fit for Yvaleth. “Look after her, will you?” he murmured softly to the horse.

It wasn't long before Cassandra arrived, then Varric, and finally Solas and Yvaleth together. Cullen almost cursed his impulse when he saw Varric. It would be just like the dwarf to tease him into an unfortunate outburst of some kind in front of her. But any wish to be elsewhere retreated quickly when he saw how Yvaleth's face brightened at the sight of him. How easily she forgave: her temper might be hasty as the lightning Cassandra said she called forth from blue skies, but it dissipated as quickly too.

Still, Cullen was glad that Cassandra kept him occupied with final reminders and admonitions, for when it came to the point, he had no idea what to say to Yvaleth. _Thank you_ was both too much (in front of the others—Solas especially was watching him with far more curiosity than he liked) and at the same time not enough. But when she'd stowed her belongings—which seemed to amount to a lot of herbs, a few tools and a single change of shift—into the saddlebags and prepared to mount, Cullen stepped forward. If she were anyone else, he would have grasped her calf to give her a leg up. But to do so seemed intrusive and at the same time impersonal. Swallowing, he sank to one knee and laced his fingers together to make a stirrup for her to step into.

He could _feel_ Varric's grin, but he didn't care. “Thank you, Commander.” Her voice was soft, shy almost, and for just a fleeting moment, he felt her fingertips touch his shoulder. Then she put her little foot into his hands and lightly sprang up onto her mount. Cullen turned away immediately, unable to even look at her, and he busied himself giving Varric rather more laborious help into the saddle.

When the dwarf was settled, he leaned down. “I'll see about that...favor...for you, Curly.”

“I hate you,” Cullen muttered. He supposed he should be grateful that Varric had been relatively discreet in his teasing—for Varric, anyway.

And then Cassandra was declaring they had wasted enough time and impatiently kicking her stallion into a trot, and soon the four figures were retreating into the distance. Cullen shaded his eyes with his hands, watching the slim figure on the bay mare for as long as he could distinguish her. “Maker, go before her,” he whispered, then turned back towards Haven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the kudos and comments! This is my first story posted here, so I'm so very grateful to find people enjoying it. And yes, Yvaleth's spelling hurts me too.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cassandra absolutely pronounces squirrel "squeerill," and Solas trolls with the best of them

The fire was burning down to its coals; Cassandra had been staring into it for over an hour, her face intent as if she were trying to silently interrogate it. But the quiet was broken when she said, “Solas, what do you think of the Herald?”

Solas looked up from the book he was reading without regard for the diminishing light, and Varric did the same. “She is an unusually able mage, given her lack of training,” Solas said after a pause for consideration. “Her staff work is not very economical, but she is making progress, I think.”

Cassandra let out a huffing breath. Why had she even expected him to give her a real answer? “That is not what I meant. I _know_ she is an able mage, I have been watching her for two weeks. And when I saw how well she performed at the Crossroads, how she won the peoples' hearts by listening and helping...and then she dealt with Mother Giselle so well. I could not have done as well. But as soon as we are back in the woods, she goes back to behaving like a little girl...or a pet squirrel,” she amended, cracking a walnut with the hilt of her sword. Yvaleth had been up and down trees ever since they'd made camp, returning occasionally to bestow a lapful of nuts on one of them.

“Nevarran children must be impressive indeed to display such unwearying resolve,” Solas answered blandly.

“They are.” Cassandra's voice was cold. “I am surprised to hear you argue the point. I asked one of the servants about the names you two use. She calls you elder, and you call her child.”

There was something low and dangerous in Solas's voice when he answered, and Cassandra nearly shivered. “And if ever you learn to interpret as well as observe, you will be dangerous indeed, Seeker. Please refrain from drawing false equivalencies between our cultures. Yvaleth is young. In her clan, she was an apprentice, and I imagine all the responsibility you have heaped on her is bewildering. So, yes, she turns to me as an elder. But do not use my words in favor of whatever case you are making against her. If you have a question to ask, _ask_ it, but I have no interest in listening to foolish insinuations.”

Cassandra's teeth were gritted, for beyond anger, there was a cold derision in Solas's voice. But she forced herself to respond civilly. “Then tell me what you think of her. Her, not her magical ability.”

“And he lives,” Varric muttered. “That's one for the history books.”

“You said I call her child,” Solas replied. “But in your language, there are many ways of describing one with such qualities, yes? One might say childish, or one might say childlike.”

“And what is the difference?”

“Childish indicates poor self-control, irresponsibility, pettiness. None of those describe Yvaleth very well, though she must learn to control her temper. Childlike, however...she is trusting, innocent enough to take ideas of justice seriously, hopeful and energetic.”

“That is very well, but as a leader? A leader must not be childlike.” At last it was out. She had been brooding over this ever since they had left for the Hinterlands. She and Leliana had hashed out the drawbacks of either of them being named leader of the Inquisition. It would look like a power grab in despite of Chantry process. Even if they supported one another, it would only be considered conspiracy. And both were feared more than loved. Only Yvaleth, thrown at their feet like a treasure from the seas—or a gift from the Maker—stood outside Chantry politics. The Herald of Andraste who closed the rifts with a commanding gesture yet kissed the foreheads of refugee children as they whimpered in their sleep. But could anyone as young and...odd...as Yvaleth be a true leader?

“Have you ever seen King Alistair at a puppet show?” Varric murmured.

Solas didn't reply for a long time, but he finally said, “You ask a serious question, and I will give you a serious answer. Those childlike qualities are the reason she recruits new agents wherever she goes. But that is not to say she is without faults. Not the pleasure she takes in foraging nuts and escaping your delightful company,” he qualified dryly, “but she is impulsive and uncertain in personal dealings. She has...not had a particularly happy life until now. I will not betray her confidences, but even you must have guessed as much. The Dalish value clan above all else, but she almost never speaks of them, and she has never asked you when she might return to them. She dislikes discord. She is quick to respond to even a hint of kindness, but also quick to anger when she feels rejected or slighted. That said, the faults of hastiness are those of youth, and I believe they are already being tempered. I would say that she can be a just and effective leader, but only if she feels supported, needed, trusted. Above all, she wants to help. You must decide for yourself if you can nurture her into the leader you desire.”

Cassandra brooded over that for a long while. “Varric?” she said finally.

“You're asking my opinion? Another first for the histories.”

“Just answer if you can do it without making jokes.”

“I think he's right: you have to decide what kind of leader you want. An iron fist to hammer out Fereldan, or someone who inspires people. I can tell you which one I like better, but I don't imagine your respect for my opinion goes _that_ far.”

“Probably not,” Cassandra muttered.

“And if everyone supports her, it's less likely she'll be too much under any one person's influence.” Neither Cassandra nor Varric looked at Solas, but they didn't have to. Cassandra was quite sure he understood the concerns her close relationship with him might engender.

But all Solas said, a little mockingly, was, “And I think you should continue this discussion at a later time. I can hear her coming back now.”

 

***

 

Yvaleth was sewing yet _another_ patch on her breeches in the firelight while Cassandra sorted and read through dispatches from Haven. Sliding down a hill rather than taking the time to find a path always seemed like a good idea at the time, but it definitely took a toll on her clothes. Harrit would probably cry when he saw the state of his “proper mage coat.”

“My poor breeches,” she mourned whimsically.

“Those are not breeches,” Cassandra said without looking up from her letters. “Those are a loose collection of patches you wear on your backside. Oh, Cullen sends his regards.”

“What?” Yvaleth's head jerked up at those last words. “H-he...what did he say?”

“Just an update on the troops and things you already know. And his regards.”

Yvaleth wanted to throttle her. 'Just things she already knew'? She didn't know anything! She'd left him that morning without being able to say a word, since the others had been there. All she had to remember was his face, the way he'd just barely glanced up at her while he knelt there waiting for her to step up onto the horse. She'd been replaying that morning over and over for the last three weeks, wishing she could write to him, but unwilling to say anything that would surely be read at least by Leliana, if not even her agents. There was no reason for it to trouble her so—she had made her peace offering, and he had returned it, quietly showing that he held no grudge. But that didn't help at all with the all-consuming need to know that Cassandra's words had awakened.

Varric, who was watching Yvaleth's face, leaned back and grinned like he'd just won a bet. “Aww, c'mon, Seeker, read it to us. Here we are in the middle of nowhere, and you won't even share a letter from home?”

“I told her what it said,” Cassandra protested absently, her quill scratching along the margin of a note from Leliana.

“Perhaps Commander Cullen has expressed personal sentiments toward the Seeker that it would embarrass her to share,” Solas offered. The firelight dancing off his bald head and dark eyes made him look rather wicked. “You should be more considerate of her natural feminine delicacy.”

The quill skidded. “What? What nonsense is this? Do you think he and I—that—ugh, I will read the letter.”

Varric winked at Solas while Cassandra was distracted picking Cullen's note out of the pile she had dropped it into.

“ _Seeker Pentaghast_ —this is a very sentimental greeting, no? _Greetings from Haven. I had thought to write and update you on our current state of readiness since while we hear of you almost every day, there are more comings than goings. The new recruits are beginning to bear a vague resemblance to soldiers, and as of this writing I have promoted three new captains to take charge. It is important to build unit cohesion before it is required. The hammers and saws are busy day and night making new barracks, but it's hard to keep up. I have told Lady Montilyet that if she invites yet another member of the nobility to visit and asks me to find somewhere 'nice' for them to sleep, I will show them to her quarters, and she can make shift in the hay loft. I have no time to cater to frivolous onlookers. Please give the Herald my warmest regards and tell her that Adan is twice as irritable in her absence. But though we miss her healing skills, it is clear from the new arrivals what an impression she is making on this trip. I gain an amusing, if rather elaborated, picture of your journeys from their accounts. Apparently touching the hem of the Herald's robe cures palsy now? Please continue efforts to gain Horsemaster Dennet's aid. Many of our more seasoned soldiers are cavalry-trained, and there is_ _nothing_ _more pitiful than watching a cavalryman try to fight on foot. I have sent a troop to begin construction of the watchtowers your most recent dispatch requested. Yours respectfully, Cullen Rutherford._ ”

Yvaleth's heart soared. He had sent not just his regards, but his _warmest_ regards. To her and no one else! She bent her head lower over her breeches, trying to hide her elation. She still couldn't explain, even to herself, why she was so drawn to the former templar. Yet each of the few times they had spoken, Yvaleth had felt intensely awake and alive, drawn to his warmth and uncertainty. And she had hated leaving with things so upset and confused between them—that was the real reason she had sent Varric with the dawn lotus, to try and put things as right as she could before she left.

“Was that so hard?” Varric said mildly. “And that was a good letter. A lot better than I thought Curly could write. What did you mean about things she already knew? Did you know touching your robe cures palsy, Firefly?”

Yvaleth shook her head, grateful beyond measure that he'd not taken his teasing in the obvious direction. “I wonder if it's this particular one. I could have it cut up for rags and stored at the apothecary's.”

“I should start investing in your relics now.” Varric continued his joking, and Yvaleth was happy to join in, suggesting he could provide her new clothes and she would give them back to him “holy.” But underneath the light current of talk, she was repeating to herself Cullen's words over and over, trying to commit them to memory. It would be another two weeks at least before they headed back for Haven, and though Yvaleth had previously been dreading the return to the cold Frostbacks, just then she wanted to return more than anything else in the world.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you so much for comments and kudos! It really motivates me to stick with this story!


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Yvaleth makes a terrible decision, and Cullen takes his shirt off!

It was long past dark when four weary horses and four weary riders made the last long climb up to the gates of Haven. Cullen had already told himself half a dozen times that he would wait only a few more minutes, and then go to bed. They had sent a runner from one of the camps saying they would be in that night, but now it was snowing, and surely they had set up a makeshift camp for the night and would come in tomorrow. Yet Cullen stayed, changing the torches, his eyes fixed on the bend in the road below. And finally, his patience was rewarded when he saw a feeble glimmer of light moving slowly towards him. He shook the stable boy awake and bade him prepare the stalls and waited while the faint light advanced, watching for the gleam of dark gold hair...

They were snow dusted and exhausted—even Cassandra tumbled out of the saddle more than she dismounted—but Yvaleth's face flashed bright pleasure when she saw him, and Cullen was _very_ glad that Varric was apparently too tired to take notice of the fact that it took him a full minute to stop grinning like a fool. “I'd given up hoping you'd come in tonight.”

“We just wanted to be done with it,” Cassandra said wearily, pressing her palms to her lower back and arching slightly. “The snow put out my torch, but Solas walked ahead with a lantern.”

Cullen scarcely heard her. Yvaleth had slid down from a lovely chestnut horse he didn't recognize—his heart chastised him for missing the chance to take her hand and steady her, even as he reminded himself sternly that she was more than able to dismount herself. Now she was leaning rather sleepily against the horse's shoulder, still holding the reins.

“If you need another saddle, you can use my ass. I'm pretty sure it's hard as rawhide by now,” Varric complained as he gave his reins to the stable boy.

“Don't tempt me,” Cullen answered. He went to Yvaleth and took her reins from her. “Give me a moment and I'll light you up to your cabin. I...the...the fire is lit for you, or should be. I gave orders.” Those weren't the only orders he'd given. He'd found Lianna, the kitchen elf he'd terrified the day Yvaleth left, and asked her to make sure there was something hot for Yvaleth to eat when she came in.

“Have we found another use for you?” Yvaleth joked weakly. She looked absolutely exhausted, her face drawn with the effort to stay upright.

“To be fair, they all boil down to giving orders,” he answered with a deprecating laugh.

They were interrupted by a loud, bugling sound from the little fenced-in area at the back of the stables. “What is that?” Cassandra asked, but Yvaleth had sprung to quivering attention at the sound, her face rapt.

“I'd meant to save the surprise for tomorrow, but apparently someone is eager to meet you,” Cullen said, his eyes drinking in the beauty, the _life_ in her face. It took away his own tiredness too. “One of the Dalish clans sent it for you—there's a letter too, Josephine has it.”

“For me? A...” Yvaleth wasted no more time in flying around the stables to where the source of the sound was: a magnificent red hart, proud against the white snow, his head lifted as he scented the wind. Yvaleth half-climbed the fence and then stood there, eyes wide, mouth open. “For—mine? My friend? He will bear me?” She again seemed very young in her perplexed delight, and Cullen thought he'd never seen anything so sweet as her quivering yearning toward the hart, the adoration in her eyes.

The red hart slowly picked his way toward her, and Yvaleth held perfectly still as the hart examined her with huge, dark eyes. Then he lowered his head, burying his nose in her coat to sniff her, and Yvaleth let out a long sigh and put her forehead down to press between his enormous antlers. Watching the two of them silently learn each other through touch and smell was exquisite, and Cullen didn't say a word, just let them have the moment. She'd had little enough pleasure from her labors, and she deserved this joy.

“ _Ma enansal_ ,” Yvaleth whispered. _My blessing_. And then she swayed in her precarious perch, so much that Cullen stepped forward to catch her by the waist. She was so small, so delicate under his big, clumsy hands. He felt like he was handling a delicate piece of Orlesian porcelain.

“Careful,” he chided gently. “You should get to bed. He will be here in the morning.”

Yvaleth almost looked like she was ready to argue the point, and Cullen steeled himself to be firm about how she could _not_ sleep out here with the hart. But finally she nodded. “You're right. Thank you, _ma falon_.” Her voice was slurred with exhaustion, but she still looked transported with happiness.

“Just let me get your things. I'll carry them up for you.” She followed him, and Cullen assured himself that the stable boy was taking proper care of the mounts, then grabbed Yvaleth's saddlebags, giving a little “oof” as he settled them over his shoulder. “You went away with a bundle of herbs and a change of linen, and you've come back with half the Hinterlands!” He caught up a lantern and half-turned, smiling at Yvaleth.

“Careful,” she hummed. “I found some wine...I brought it as a present for Josephine.”

“Understood.” He led her through the gates and up the hill, reaching out with one hand to steady her when she stumbled once on the icy path. Opening the door to her little house, he was glad to find that the fire _was_ still burning, and there was a little pot of something hot near the edge of the hearth keeping warm. He laid down her saddlebags and said, “If you're not too tired to eat, there's...probably soup, I don't know.”

“No more mutton,” she groaned, sinking down on a stool next to the fire and immediately attacking her boots with clumsy ferocity, like an animal trying to rid itself of a collar.

“No mutton,” he agreed, smiling. “Lianna from the kitchens...she had told me how the stew disagreed with you, and I asked her to have something waiting.”

At last, Yvaleth really looked at him properly. “Why?” she said simply.

“I—I just thought you'd be coming in cold and—and I didn't mean to presume...” She had stripped off her socks and was wiggling her bare toes, and it was so adorable he wasn't sure he'd have been able to answer properly even if it wasn't such a difficult question.

“Did you leave soup for Cassandra too?”

“I...” He was embarrassed, realizing suddenly how pointed his solicitous care must seem. Why _had_ he been so determined to look after her? They had only been alone together...what, three times? And he was acting like a concerned _husband—_ especially given he had only just barely stopped himself from dropping to his knees to help with her boots. He should have stayed in the stables, should have seen if Cassandra had any urgent news before morning—though considering it was Cassandra, she wouldn't have been so quiet if she had. But the moment Yvaleth had arrived, tired but smiling, she had consumed his attention. He felt like a knock-kneed boy who'd been dared to kiss the miller's daughter, all heart in his throat and captive to her beauty. “No,” he said finally.

She nodded, but didn't seem to make any judgment about what that meant, instead leaning forward to serve some of the soup into a bowl. Thank the Maker she was so tired—maybe tomorrow she could convince herself he _hadn't_ been such a fool? “I should go,” he said awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Let you rest. I...sleep well, Herald.”

Yvaleth paused, swallowing her mouthful. “Yvaleth. You're not angry with me now. Are you?”

“I—no! No, I'm not even quite sure what either of us was angry about. Y-you aren't...?”

She shook her head. “I'm not sure either. But I am sorry. You are my friend, and I shouldn't have said those things. Did—the herbs, did they help?”

“They did. Though that root certainly follows the rule of the best medicine tasting foul,” he chuckled. “But...I'm very grateful.”

She smiled faintly, and even that slight smile, with her green eyes half-lidded from weariness, did terrible things to him. _Friend_ , he repeated to himself. _Friend_. He had to get out of there before he made an even bigger fool of himself. “Good night, Yvaleth. I'll see you in the morning.”

 

***

 

“So we're supposed to just send her into Val Royeaux like a lamb to the slaughter?” Cullen demanded. “They've been calling for her head for months now. Not letting the Herald be decapitated could fairly be described as one of the defining missions of the Inquisition. Why on earth should we do this?”

Yvaleth sighed and rubbed her forehead. Her trip to the Hinterlands had been long, and exhausting, but she rather thought nothing had been more exhausting than these endless wrangles in the war room. She appreciated Cullen wanting to protect her— his vehemence surprised her a bit, but in a good way—but at the same time, it was just more dissent to be waded through. Maybe that was why they were called the Inquisition, because they would inquire endlessly into every possible course of action.

“If we can start working to bring the Chantry around, it's worth doing,” Leliana said. “Mother Giselle has given us a place to start.” It was strange, Leliana's blind devotion to the Chantry, especially since she'd been one half of the impetus for the Inquisition. Yvaleth knew Leliana was devout, but so was Cullen, so even was Cassandra. But they didn't seem to...romanticize the Chantry in the same way Leliana did. One more mystery from a woman of many mysteries.

“And what's to protect her, once she's there?” Cullen asked. “They'll do it just to score a cheap political win, even if they don't believe she's guilty.”

“I will go with her,” Cassandra said, in tones of heavy authority. And then tense and slightly enigmatic, she turned to regard Yvaleth. “If that will give you a sense of security.” There was a question to it.

Yvaleth gave a weary laugh. “Seeker, we both know if you wanted me dead, my head would be on a gibbet over Haven's gates. You wouldn't leave the pleasure of it to someone else.” Leliana, on the other hand... But having Cassandra by her side would mean security. The Seeker was incapable of deception like this.

Cassandra seemed pleased with that answer, and they finally agreed that Yvaleth and Cassandra would go to Val Royeaux in a week's time. The Inquisition had grown dramatically just since they had departed, and a number of tasks had been pushed off until they returned. Yvaleth didn't love the idea of practically offering herself up to the Chantry, especially since if they really wished to press the issue, they would have enough templars on hand to kill Cassandra alongside her and plenty of clerics who might be itching to do that, too. But Cassandra's reputation held weight. It was very unlikely they would risk the outcry that would follow massacring the Right Hand in public. And Enansal, as Yvaleth had named her red hart, would come too, and he could spit two templars at a time, if he wanted to. As a healer, Yvaleth knew exactly how much damage a full-grown hart could do, even to a party of hunters, and it wasn't pretty. The thought cheered her up probably more than it should have.

 

***

 

The forthcoming visit to Val Royeaux meant a great many lessons on etiquette and politics from Josephine, and Yvaleth spent every free hour with her nose in some book of history to try and keep up, usually with Solas nearby to help explain the words and ideas she didn't understand. And so four days later, when Cassandra led her down to the training grounds in the early afternoon, Yvaleth was a little startled to realize that she had barely had time to even think of Cullen, much less try to work out what his behavior meant. Or maybe on some level she already knew—he'd revealed himself in such a sweet and simple way that it was hard to imagine that he didn't feel...something. You didn't arrange soup or rush to carry bags for someone you didn't care about at all. And though Yvaleth had called him friend, deep down she knew it was more than that. Wasn't it?

“What can I do for you?” Cullen asked briskly. “If this is an impromptu inspection, I'm afraid I don't have much to show for myself at present. Shall I bugger off and become a farmer?”

Cassandra smiled. “You give yourself too little credit as always, Cullen. No, I wanted Yvaleth to spend some time practicing hand-to-hand. We find ourselves fighting in close quarters more often than I could wish.”

Yvaleth waved a staff, which was far plainer than her usual affair of intricate carving and crystal. It looked like, and was, a plain piece of wood. “No magic,” she grumbled. She did _not_ like the prospect of this. Not that she objected to the logic of it, but Yvaleth didn't see why they had to do it like this, where everyone could see her looking so weak. Wasn't she supposed to be giving them confidence and hope?

Cullen looked taken aback. “I...I don't have anyone else training with staves, though. I've no one to partner her with.”

“I don't want her practicing against another staff. If she faces someone with a staff, he's probably casting spells that she can dispel easily enough. I want her to learn to face a sword.” And with that, Cassandra turned away, calling over her shoulder, “She can stay until they're done for the day.”

Yvaleth wanted to complain. She really, really wanted to complain. The only good thing about this was that it was a break from her _mind_ being worked into exhaustion. But the women and men in front of her were training to go into the front lines, to face demons and trebuchets and every other kind of hell with far less to protect them than she had. To complain in front of them would be shameful. So she just gave Cullen a rueful smile. “Reporting for duty, Commander.”

Cullen rubbed his forehead. “All right. Morton--”

“Not me, ser!” came the immediate protest from a thickset young woman. “Mam'd wallop me if she heard I was hitting the Herald. And that's just hoping the Maker doesn't do it first.” There was a murmur of agreement through the ranks of recruits.

Yvaleth scowled and went to face down the unfortunate Morton. “Look. Commander Cullen is going to be ordering you to do a lot worse things than help me train, and if we can't trust you to _do_ them, I promise we'll all have much bigger problems than a few bruises.”

At that they fell silent, and Morton looked abashed. “Sorry, Herald. I—I didn't think.” And when Yvaleth jerked her head toward Cullen, she added, “Sorry, ser.”

“All right,” Cullen said, not too harshly. “Just see it doesn't happen again.” Then he waved his signal for the recruits to resume their sparring.

Yvaleth felt terrible for Morton—the girl was obviously miserable facing off against her, and worse, she had almost no sense of how to use her sword. Yvaleth had never thought she'd find herself _under_ matched in a contest of physical abilities, but all those lengthy staff-work drills with Solas meant that she now handled her staff like an extension of her hands. Blocking and striking with it was different, but not so different as she had expected. It was all about force, only in this case the force was physical instead of magical.

It didn't help that Morton apologized vociferously every time she actually made contact with Yvaleth. The padded jerkin Yvaleth wore absorbed most of the force, and the apologies were actually more painful than the blows. The fourth time it happened, Yvaleth heard a snickering and looked up to see one of Leliana's scouts sitting on top of a nearby wall, openly laughing. “You will be fine if you come up against a farmer with a blunted hoe, Herald. Of course I don't suppose they'd risk your precious self against a real opponent. A pity. It is the only way you learn.”

There was scorn in the woman's voice—and she had an Orlesian accent, which only made it sound twice as scornful—and Yvaleth bristled up, especially because Morton had tears in her eyes now. And the recruits were watching. Yvaleth lifted her chin in a brusque gesture. “Then why don't you stop sitting on your arse and get in here?”

Cullen was on the other side of the camp just then, thank Mythal, or he'd never have allowed it, and Yvaleth would have lost the battle for their respect before she even began. As it was, the Orlesian scout jumped down and gave a mocking, courtly bow. “Scout Chalmes, at your service, _Herald_.” Again there was a subtle sneer in the way she used the title.

“Enchanted, I'm sure.” Yvaleth lifted her staff and held it defensively at the ready. A quick singing sound, and the scout had whipped out her sword. Yvaleth felt a pang of fear—she was risking more than a few bruises. Scout Chalmes obviously had something to prove, and she was one of Leliana's people—that meant she would be a lot more adept with a weapon than a raw recruit fresh off the farm.

But if Chalmes had something to prove, so did Yvaleth, and she wasn't going to back down. It was tempting to use magic; even though the staff itself was about as magical as a broom handle, Yvaleth could still work spells, maybe even subtly enough not to be detected. But she wasn't going to cheat. She was going to at least hold her own against this scornful Orlesian. Beyond that...well, at least the apothecary was well stocked, and she could direct the healers in her treatment if need be.

Chalmes struck fast, but Yvaleth was watching, and she dodged. She didn't want to block with her staff unless she absolutely had to; that blade looked sharp enough to cut through it like butter. But unlike when she'd been sparring with the hapless Morton, Yvaleth had no compunction about using a low sweep aimed at Chalmes's feet, which the scout nimbly leaped over.

Chalmes was fast and precise, and within half a minute, Yvaleth was breathless in a way she hadn't been while training with Morton. More, the thrusts weren't tempered with a desire not to hurt. For whatever reason, Chalmes wanted to see her bleed. Within another few minutes, she got her wish, managing a glancing blow against Yvaleth's side. Yvaleth felt the sharp heat of the cut and had her speculation about the blade's sharpness proved for her—her jerkin had given her almost no protection.

“You can cry mercy, Herald,” Chalmes said, gloating. “We Andrastians are merciful—unlike your savage race.”

Yvaleth answered by sweeping her staff upwards, and Chalmes had to jump quickly to avoid a direct strike in her lady parts. Any compunction Yvaleth might have had about fighting dirty was soothed by the pleasure of seeing a faint expression of alarm cross the scout's face. After that, there was less dancing around each other, and both attacked hastily, almost recklessly. Yvaleth got in a hard blow across Chalmes's knuckles and when she heard the _crack_ , she hoped for a moment Chalmes would drop her sword—but she didn't.

There was no way to avoid real injury in such a fight for long, and a few moments later, Yvaleth's luck ran out. Chalmes waited until the Herald's arm was extended for a blow, then spun and brought the hilt of her sword down on the back of Yvaleth's shoulder with a sickening crunch. It tore a cry of pain from her for the first time, and Yvaleth knew she was done unless she could get in one good blow. Using her left hand, for the right was now useless, she jabbed backwards with her staff, putting all her strength into it, and she heard another crunch and a cry of pain to answer it.

Then there was shouting, and Yvaleth felt a hard hand on her collar yanking her backwards. She stumbled and gasped, but was pleased to see that Scout Chalmes's sword was on the ground, and blood was streaming down her face while she clutched at her nose and cheek. There was a hard shake on Yvaleth's collar, and then Cullen came around to stand between them, with white-faced Morton at his side. The recruit had probably gone to fetch him. She was a nice girl, Yvaleth thought dizzily.

“What in the sodding hell are you two doing turning my training exercises into a brawl?” Cullen demanded. “Scout Chalmes, if I wished your assistance, I would certainly have asked for it. Herald, what—?”

Yvaleth tried to shrug, then winced. “Savage Dalish, you know how we are.”

Cullen's teeth gritted, and he shot Chalmes a glare. “Get out of my sight,” he ordered the scout. “I will be having words with Sister Leliana about this.”

Chalmes mumbled something through a mouthful of blood, stooped to pick up her sword, and hurried away. Cullen turned to regard Yvaleth, still glaring. “Herald, a word, if you please.”

“Gladly,” Yvaleth answered tightly. Her shoulder was screaming with pain, and her side was warm and wet. Now that the heat of battle had dissipated, she felt every ache, and her knees wanted to buckle. But she'd done this to prove she could hold her own. Having to be carried off the field wouldn't exactly help with that impression.

Inside the command tent, Cullen let out a long breath, his eyes still fierce on her face. “What were you thinking, fighting with her? She's a former bloody chevalier.”

“She was rude,” Yvaleth muttered, realizing exactly how much like a child she sounded. “And I wanted them to see I could handle myself. I'm supposed to make them feel safe.” She winced, nursing her right arm where it hung limp.

“I'm sure watching your shoulder be dislocated made them feel very safe,” Cullen snapped. Then he took a deep breath. “Are you all right?”

Yvaleth shook her head. “No,” she confessed. “But—she dropped her sword. She didn't beat me.”

“No, you stubborn creature. She didn't beat you. Sit down, and I'll get Adan.” He helped Yvaleth toward a chair, then stopped short when he felt the warm blood sticky on her jerkin. “Maker, Yvaleth...”

“Don't,” Yvaleth begged. “I can get there on my own. I don't want to worry them more. It's only my shoulder that's bad. Do you think it's broken?”

He looked at her critically and lifted the arm, wincing when a strangled sound escaped her lips. “No, thank the Maker. Let me...” And without a pause, he gripped her shoulder hard on one hand, then gave a sharp yank on the arm. White-hot pain blinded her, and the sound Yvaleth made was like a rabbit in the instant of the hawk's dive. But then the pain began to recede—not just the pain he'd caused, but the constant, sharp burning in her shoulder. It still hurt, but she could bear it.

Still, Yvaleth was trembling, and when Cullen moved to help her sit, she leaned weakly against him. “ _Ma serannen_. What a mess.”

“I'm not sure about the first part, but I'll heartily agree with the second.” Cullen turned away to rummage behind his desk, and in a moment he returned with a medic's case. “Let's get this jerkin off,” he said gently.

Yvaleth nodded, exhausted into complete docility, but when she lifted her hands to try and unbuckle the straps, it hurt too much, and she leaned back into the chair, panting. “I...I can't.”

“All right.” Cullen's face was turning red, but he pulled off his gloves and knelt down in front of her, carefully undoing the straps and easing her arms out of the sleeves. He flinched every time she flinched, for it could not help hurting, gentle though he was.

“Commander,” Yvaleth said softly, while he was easing the side of her tunic up. “I'm sorry about this. I...I should have handled it better.”

“I can't disagree with that,” Cullen said wryly, wincing when he saw the gash in her side. He reached for a handful of cloths from the case and pressed them hard into the wound. “But this isn't really your fault. Cassandra should have known better than to do this in front of everyone. I suppose she thought since physical combat is so secondary for you, it didn't matter.”

“Everything matters. Everything I do—they watch, always watching. Waiting for a mistake.” She lifted her arms so he could wrap a bandage around her midsection.

“I know,” Cullen said softly. “I can't pretend I might not have done the same thing.”

Yvaleth gave him a weak, sideways smile. “Which is why you keep a medic's kit behind your desk. We are too much alike.” Her breathing hitched as he cinched the bandage tight and tied it off.

“Sorry,” he said, wincing again. “This is just to get you up the hill.”

“I know. Thank you, Commander. I'm grateful.” She ought to go now, but even the thought of standing seemed daunting.

He cleared his throat. “Cullen,” he said.

“Hmm?” Her eyelids drooping, she turned her head to regard him more fully. He really was so lovely—all golden hair and golden skin, a hint of stubble on his jaw, and that distracting scar that kept leading her eyes back to his mouth, again and again. Oh, how she liked his mouth, wry and tender by turns.

“You...I'd like you to call me Cullen. I should have asked before.”

“Cullen,” Yvaleth said softly. She had a foolish urge to reach out and stroke his face, run her fingertips over that tempting mouth. What was it about him that drew her so? Even though they were very alike, their likeness only made trouble, made them spark against each other. Yvaleth had never in her life felt this way before, and it would have been terrifying if it weren't so sweet. Still, she kept her hands in her lap.

Cullen smiled, then stood up. “We should get you up to Adan and Solas.”

“And I thought you liked me,” she teased weakly, but took the hand he offered, groaning as she stood up. “I can go on my own, you don't have to come with me.”

“After what happened the last time I let you out of my sight, I think not.” But he let her walk without assistance, stiff and slow as she was.

A number of the recruits were waiting only a little distance away from the tent, and Yvaleth raised her left hand and waved as cheerfully as she could manage. There was a relieved cheer, and Cullen rolled his eyes. “Show off.” He was smiling, though.

“I'm not the one who named me the Herald of Andraste,” she returned under her breath.

They weren't even halfway up the hill when they met Solas, and though his face was impassive, Yvaleth could almost feel the waves of reproach rolling off him. She didn't know how he'd known of her injury, but he obviously was at least aware that something had happened. “Not here, please, _hahren_ ,” was all she said.

Solas nodded abruptly and fell in on the other side of her. “She'd better come to my rooms. Adan is looking after the scout now.”

“Is Sister Leliana going to kill me?” It felt strange voicing aloud the question that haunted Yvaleth more nights than not. For as much as she had come to trust Cassandra, everything that happened only served to reinforce her distrust of Leliana. The cold-faced Chantry sister made a nonsense of all the arguments Yvaleth gave herself: that they wouldn't keep her around just to kill her later, for example. She was fairly sure that was exactly what Leliana would do, if it seemed most expedient.

“If you're asking the question, the answer is probably no, or at least not right now. If she ever did, you wouldn't see it coming,” Cullen replied.

Yvaleth shot him a betrayed look. “This isn't funny, Cullen!”

He looked immediately repentant. “You're right. I'll—blast, I should go talk to her, smooth things over. You'll be all right now?”

Yvaleth gave the silent Solas a nervous, sideways glance, but nodded. “Yes, I'll be all right. Thank you for this.” What a beautiful mess she had made of everything—as usual.

 

***

 

Yvaleth's injury meant the planned trip to Val Royeaux was delayed for another week, and Cullen couldn't pretend he wasn't glad of that. He hated the idea of sending Yvaleth into the heart of Orlesian scheming and Chantry politics. He had managed to smooth things over with Leliana easily enough: she was furious, but with Chalmes, not Yvaleth, and the scout was reassigned to the Storm Coast, where they were slowly beginning to extend Inquisition influence.

Cullen spent two days inventing and then rejecting excuses for why he should go see Yvaleth, whom he hadn't seen since the incident. Finally, realizing how ridiculous he was being, he climbed the hill one evening after dinner and rapped at her door. He heard her call out for him to come in and entered, relieved to find her sitting up in a chair by the fire with a book. Since he hadn't seen her since handing her off into Solas's care, he'd been fretfully imagining her in bed, her face drawn with suffering.

But here she was, smiling at him. Her hair was braided up in a style surprisingly elaborate for its minimal length. It didn't really suit her—the wispy ponytail she usually wore framed her face with glowing softness, but this hairstyle only heightened the cold beauty of her high, wide cheekbones. Beautiful, but not as appealing as usual. “I'd get up,” she said, “but...”

“Don't. I just...I came to see how you're doing.” Cullen was rather proud of himself. That almost didn't sound ridiculous, and he was far too good at making a fool of himself where the green-eyed elf was concerned.

“Bored out of my mind,” she answered frankly. “Solas has traded in his lectures for silence flavored with crushing disapproval, so I've just been sitting here reading for two days except for when Josephine comes to give me lessons in Thedan politics. Do come sit, please?”

Cullen drew up a chair and sat nearby. It was startling how immediately suffused with pleasure he felt sitting beside her. His craving for her was nearly as ever present as the need for lyrium, a low-level ache that was only relieved in her presence, where he could watch those deep green eyes and hear her voice. “You've eaten? Is there anything I can get for you?”

She shook her head. “No, but if you wanted to put the kettle on the hook, I'd not refuse a cup of tea.”

Cullen put the kettle on and, at her direction, spooned tea from a box into the pot. Then she hesitated, “Are you all right too? I've hardly asked since you came back. I can make you up an herbal infusion, if you need...”

“Stop fretting about everyone else,” Cullen chided her gently. “I am...well.” Or as well as he ever was. At least he hadn't had a really bad episode in a couple of weeks. It was progress, that they were coming slower, though a despondent part of him wondered if they would ever truly stop.

“It works out, doesn't it? I fret about everyone else, and everyone else frets about me.”

“Especially Solas.” The words slipped out with no consent whatsoever on the part of his mind. But the relationship between Yvaleth and Solas had been weighing on him. She'd only called him _hahren_ , elder, but the way she'd said “Not here” after she was wounded made it very clear that in some sense she felt herself accountable to the apostate, that there was a depth to their relationship she wanted to keep private.

“Especially Solas,” she agreed. “But also you, and Cassandra, and Josephine, and Adan, and your recruit...what was her name? Morton? She brought me a skin of ale yesterday to apologize for...oh, I couldn't even follow what she thought she was apologizing for, poor baby.”

“Did Josephine do your hair?”

Yvaleth pulled a face. “Of course she did, and with one shoulder still on a sling, and a gash on the other side, I can't get either arm up to take it out.” Then her face brightened. “Oh! Could you? I've been dreading having to go to bed like this.”

“You w-want me to...” Cullen blushed bright red, all his fantasies of sliding his fingers through that gleaming, silken hair rising up before him. “I mean, yes, of—of course.” He stood behind her, peering down at her hairdo as if it were some sort of complex mechanism. “I suppose I pull the pins out first?”

“You're asking me? But that's probably the best strategy, yes.”

Cullen bit his lip, then began removing pins. One caught and tugged a strand of hair so that she gave a little squeak, and Cullen jumped. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry...”

“It's all right,” Yvaleth reassured him. “Trust me, this can't hurt worse than having it put in. I think Josephine might actually be an Antivan torturer.”

Cullen laughed at that, and continued, patiently unpinning and unbraiding each separate strand until they hung loose around her head in waves. He smoothed his fingers through it, unable to resist. In the firelight, all the reddish tints of her hair were most prominent, and it was smooth and bright as amber. Yvaleth gave a contented hum at his little caress. “That feels good...”

“Yvaleth,” he said, in a low, husky voice. “I need to ask you something.” He continued gently carding his fingers through her hair—ostensibly to make sure all the braiding was out, but really because her cat-like pleasure in being caressed was entirely irresistible. It was just as soft as he had always imagined...

“What...hmm...what is it?” she asked, her eyes slitted nearly shut.

“Solas. You...are the two of you involved?” Cullen made every effort to keep his tone neutral, but he knew it was probably entirely obvious that he cared far too much about the answer.

“Involved?” she asked, her eyes opening again. “I mean, obviously. We're the only mages here, and almost the only elves. It's only natural, isn't it?”

“I...I'm glad for you, then. I hope he makes you very happy.” Cullen began to wonder exactly how quickly he could get away without making his disappointment too obvious. The kettle was just about to come to a boil, he'd have to at least drink the tea with her.

“That seems unlikely,” she snorted. Then she said, “Wait, did you mean romantically involved?” Without waiting for his answer, she began laughing so hard that soon she was clutching at her side in pain. “Oh, don't, it hurts...” she gasped, still chortling.

“Is it that funny?” Cullen asked, smiling in spite of himself.

“Yes,” Yvaleth wailed, tears of pain and mirth vying in her eyes. “Oh, Cullen. He has graciously taken on the role of teacher to me, after a fashion. Solas...” She shook her head, sobering. “If I loved him so, it would mean being very patiently, kindly, lovingly...erased. Even I don't hate myself that much.”

That knocked any idea of romance between them straight out of his head as no heated denial could have done, and the knot that had formed in his chest when she spoke of “being involved” with the apostate elf began to release. “If you think that of him, why did you take him for your teacher?”

“As my teacher, he doesn't try to change me, only improve me. Make me...a good me,” she stumbled. “He's very conscientious. But...love isn't conscientious, is it? It would be different.” Yvaleth pointed at the kettle, and Cullen obeyed her silent command, pouring the hot water into the pot. He placed it on the table between them to steep and found two cups.

“There's honey over there,” she pointed. “If you would like some.”

“Thank you.” He set the honeypot down with the tea things and leaned back in the chair, as happy to be silent with her as he was to talk. It was astonishing how good it felt to just relax into her presence. It made him realize how long it had been since he'd relaxed at all, and when he rolled his neck, a host of clicks and pops told him how many long-tense muscles had loosened their grip on his spine.

Yvaleth seemed just as content, but eventually she said, “I was surprised you came. Especially at night. This is the second time you've come here at night, alone.”

He froze at that. “Is—if I've troubled you or seemed improper in my...my attentions...”

Yvaleth laughed. “You don't trouble me. You're nearly the only thing that doesn't. But you were so serious before about scandal and such, I wouldn't have thought you'd come like this.”

Cullen gave a long sigh. “It's true, I don't like talk. And I especially don't want you subjected to it. But you were right, before, even if the way you said it could have used a little more...polish.” She quirked her lips at that, but didn't argue. “It's foolish to let what people might say come between...that is, make it harder to be friends,” he amended.

Yvaleth's face brightened. “Does that mean I can be your healer?”

Cullen couldn't help his face falling just a little at that, even though he supposed it was better for her to take him too lightly than to become spooked by his attentions. “I suppose it does, but I think you should probably wait until you're not under a healer's supervision yourself.”

She batted that away with an airy wave of her hand. “Tell me about your symptoms. I probably should have been more careful about finding out more before I gave you herbs, only...only we weren't doing very well at talking to each other. All I know is that it hurts you. How long has it been since you took lyrium?”

“A year now. I have...attacks.”

Patiently, Yvaleth pried every symptom out of him with practiced, neutral questions as Cullen haltingly admitted to the sick headaches, the painful muscle spasms, the nightmares. The witherstalk root she'd given him helped with the actual pain of it, but he still found himself dizzy sometimes, or barely able to stand on a leg that was suddenly spasming.

“My poor Cullen,” Yvaleth grieved softly, tapping one slim finger against her lips. And her voice was so sweet that Cullen almost thought it was worth confessing to all the pain just to hear her call him that. _Her_ Cullen. “I think...it's hard for me to know exactly, because I've never taken lyrium. My people call it the tool of magical cripples—no offense intended. My training has always focused on how to build and maintain my own reserves. But I know how it feels when my body is drained, or when the magic is just almost sparking out of me. The magic affects everything. My heart beats faster, my dinner digests faster—and I'm hungry again sooner too. Is that how it was for you, when you took the lyrium?”

“Yes. It was—oh, as exhilarating as strong drink, but it made my mind quicker, not stupider. I felt stronger, more able. Now...” He trailed off despondently.

“Now your body must relearn how to be strong without it,” Yvaleth said firmly. “And that is the issue, I think. If your body learned to rely on it so completely, then it will have forgotten how to operate well without it. The attacks are probably releases of poisons your body has been storing up because it doesn't remember how to manage them naturally.”

“Poisons?” Cullen lifted his eyebrows.

“Not like you're thinking. Your body spends so much time just filtering out the things it doesn't need, but yours isn't doing the job properly. The trick is to stimulate it into waking up without creating a new dependency. If I could get some fresh nettles...and maybe set up a steam tent...” Her eyes were alight with all kinds of unnerving ideas.

“Why do I get the feeling I'm going to regret telling you all this?” As she glared at him, he lifted his hand. “And don't tell me I'm being a baby. I _will_ be a big boy and let you do as you will, but I'm a big boy with regrets, all right?”

Yvaleth laughed at that. “Fair enough. But I can't do any of the things you'll really regret right now. Only this.” She pointed at the little cabinet in the corner that was crowded with glass phials and little jars. “The flat green jar—no, the big one.” She accepted it and opened it, and a fragrance of evergreen and some other elements Cullen couldn't identify wafted out. “Now take off your shirt and come sit in front of me.”

“But...but...your shoulder,” Cullen protested feebly. “You'll strain yourself.”

“I'm not going to do any deep massage, but I need to get it onto your skin. The headaches are probably caused just as much by your shoulders being so tight as the withdrawal itself. And if your body isn't circulating properly, any draught I could give you would be mostly wasted internally. Now come on.” She pulled her legs up under her in the chair and leaned forward, face intent.

Cullen swallowed. This wasn't exactly how he'd expected this evening to go—not that he'd had any clear idea of what would happen, but it absolutely hadn't been him being allowed to indulge his dreams of playing with her hair or having her order him to take his shirt off. But he'd promised to submit to her treatment, and there was no way he could go back on it now. Cullen pulled off his doublet, then his shirt, and sat where she indicated, right in front of her on the floor.

He could hear her rubbing her hands together, and then she delicately laid one on each shoulder. “Just relax, Cullen,” she murmured. “This won't hurt.” She began to spread the salve over his skin in slowly widening circles, her movements soothing, even though the stuff made his skin tingle almost immediately.

“Healers always say that,” he joked. But the truth was, it felt _wonderful_. Her hands worked his shoulders and then his neck slowly and patiently, rubbing in the salve and coaxing his tense muscles into at least a conditional surrender. She worked the front of his shoulders too, as far as she could reach down his chest, and soon the tingling cool of the salve was replaced by warmth. He hadn't felt this good in...actually, he wasn't sure he'd ever felt this good.

When she began rubbing at his hairline with her thumbs, a little moan escaped him, and he tensed. “I'm...sorry, that's just...”

“Hush,” Yvaleth murmured. “I want it to feel good. It does, doesn't it?”

Oh, it did. So good that his manhood was getting ideas about what it would feel like to have those skillful hands working it just as thoroughly and giving a hopeful stir. “Yes,” he admitted.

“Then just let it. You don't have to fight everything, you know,” she teased.

Cullen made a little grumbling sound, but he also let his head relax backwards onto her lap when she urged so that she could rub his forehead. His eyes were closed, but he could feel her attention entirely focused on him, smoothing out the fretful lines, coaxing his jaw to relax, easing every part of his face...

Cullen must have fallen asleep, for he startled when one of the fire logs fell through its ashy companion with a loud _thunk_. He had shifted slightly, so that he was sitting sideways in front of Yvaleth, with his head resting on her lap. One of her hands was on his head, and the other on his neck, and if his backside hadn't been so cold and stiff, he'd have wished he could stay there all night.

He slowly sat up, and Yvaleth blinked a little and smiled down at him. “I'm sorry,” Cullen said. “I...you're too good at that,” he added, with a nervous laugh and stood up to get his shirt.

“I didn't mind,” Yvaleth promised him. “I slept a little too—when I'm helping someone like that, properly, it drives out everything else, and I don't feel worried or scared anymore. Only...Cullen, may I please ask you something?”

Cullen stretched his arms over his head, giving a soft growl of pleasure at being able to do so without pain. He wanted to ask what she felt worried and scared about, wanted to hunt it down and stab it with his sword, but he forced himself to merely nod.

“I never asked. Is there...you're from Kirkwall. Is there...someone waiting for you in Kirkwall? Or—or anywhere?” She wouldn't look at his face, and one finger fidgeted adorably in her hair as she waited for his answer.

It would have been easy to give her a simple no, but that felt like giving himself too much credit, and Yvaleth deserved the truth. Cullen sank down on one knee and put his hand under her chin, making her look at him. “No. Though I...that can't exactly be credited to my knightly forbearance, I'm afraid. I...Kirkwall was a bad time for me. I had been through a lot at the Fereldan Circle before that, and I wasn't in a position to give a woman anything worth waiting for. I wasn't...wasn't a good man, then. So no. No one is waiting for me, Yvaleth.” They were almost close enough to kiss, and Cullen felt like he could drown in her green eyes, so trusting, so warm...

“And now?” There was a little quaver in her voice that hurt and delighted him at the same time. What was she, innocent as a spring lamb and entrancing as a Witch of the Wilds?

Cullen let out a slow, shaky breath and managed to chuckle. “Now I am just good enough to remember that someone in your condition should have been in bed an hour ago. It's not much, but it's a start.” Cullen hoped she didn't take that for a rejection—as if he could not want her, as if that were even possible. But it was true. He wasn't the hard, ruined templar of Kirkwall, nor the terrorized boy of the Circle. He was a man now, and he would not take advantage of her. If this thing between them were worth the pain it seemed extremely likely to cause, then it was worth taking time with.

He stood up and offered her his hand, and she accepted his help up. “It's apparently more virtue than I can claim,” she said, abashed but not angry, not withdrawing from him. “I...I'm glad you came tonight, Cullen.”

“So am I.” Oh, how he wanted to kiss her, to fill the hesitation in her eyes with passion, to feel her soft lips crushed against his, to _taste_ her. But one kiss couldn't ever be enough. “I will come again, Yvaleth. Thank you for this.” And it wasn't just the massage he meant. Somehow, almost against his will, Yvaleth had given him a doubtful kind of hope, something he'd thought himself done with long ago.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to those who've left comments and kudos. You all are reminding me of how wonderful it is to have and interact with a fandom again after so many years. <3


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are no prizes for guessing who the moodiest elf Varric has ever met is.

Sometimes Yvaleth wondered why she had ever thought she could be a help more than a hindrance to the Inquisition. Of _course_ her visit to Val Royeaux had gone “tits up,” as her colorful new companion would say. Of course the Templars hadn't listened. They were templars, they were experts at not listening to what the tricky mages said to them. And worst of all had been Cassandra's pain at seeing the Lord Seeker turn on his duty to the Chantry so decisively. And it was all because of her. If she'd been a human, a warrior, then she could have rallied them, made them listen. But she was a Dalish mage, and nothing she said would ever matter more than the length of her ears or the magic in her veins.

The saddest thing was that the trip had gone slightly better than she'd expected. There had been no (or very little) blood in the marketplace, she had not been taken into custody or assassinated, and she had gained two new allies and an invitation from Grand Enchanter Fiona to visit her at Redcliffe. But that a failure was as close as she could come to a victory with these bloody-minded people was almost more depressing. Cassandra was disappointed. Leliana and Josephine would be disappointed. Cullen, for all he'd urged against her going, would be disappointed. And it was all the worse for knowing there was no way she could have made it go right.

Yvaleth sat on a fallen log a little distance away from the camp fire, brooding. Maybe now they'd see how absolutely insane it was to keep her around. Maybe they'd let her slip off into the shadows and be forgotten. If they could close the Breach with the mages' help, she could do that. It would be a mercy to them. She could release Solas from their bond and just slip away, go back to being nothing and no one. Not back to her clan—those ties were broken forever now too. Nothing...

“Still feeling sorry for yourself, Firefly?” Yvaleth started at the voice, and looked up from her intense scrutiny of the ground before her to see a tankard of ale, and holding it, Varric.

“Other people too. I'm not exclusive in my pity,” she said, taking the tankard and trying to sound light about it.

“You never had a chance there—you know that, right?” the dwarf asked conversationally as he settled himself beside her.

“I do,” she sighed. “That's the problem. Because if I never had a chance, then I never will. Then I can never do anything for the Inquisition except hold them back and scare off those who should be their natural allies.” She held up her hand, preempting his speech. “I know, I know, close the Breach. And I will, of course I will. But after that...”

“Let me guess, after that you'll run away and tell yourself it's for their own good. Is that about right?”

“Maybe. Probably,” she admitted. “Let's be honest, Varric, I'm only here on sufferance because of the Mark. Once that's no longer of any use, I'm just an embarrassment.”

“Yeah, all those refugees in the Hinterlands crying with gratitude seemed pretty embarrassed for you,” he said caustically. “Have you talked to Solas about this?”

Yvaleth shook her head. “It's...it's not his problem to solve.” And it would only hurt to consider how it would be to lose his kindness, the first _real_ connection she'd ever had with another elf. When she was alone again.

“I thought you trusted him.”

“I do! But...but he's here because of the Breach, and so am I. That's why he's interested in me, that's why he's been teaching me, so I can do what I have to do. When that's gone...”

“Then what? Where are you going to go? Because I can tell you, if you're holding out for a place with universal acceptance and no Chantry bastards, you won't find it.”

“I'll—I don't know, I'll go into the woods and live there.”

Varric stared at her. “And that's preferable.”

“Animals don't pretend. Trees don't pretend,” Yvaleth said morosely.

“Oh, yeah. Are you gonna kick Cullen on the way out, or just pretend you aren't breaking his heart?”

“There's nothing—he—we haven't even kissed,” she insisted. “He can add me to his plentiful store of sorrowful reminiscences.” And he would be the ornament of her collection. It was true that they hadn't kissed, but he'd come twice more before she'd left. They drank tea together in silence, or Cullen told her stories about his family. He was funny and tender, even if he didn't kiss her, and he was...much too dear to think about when she was feeling like this.

“Just what Curly needs, something else to brood about.” Varric shook his head, then raised his voice, “Chuckles! Firefly's being an asshole. Get over here and knock some sense into her or whatever you elves do.”

Yvaleth's eyes widened with horror, especially as Solas didn't, as she desperately hoped, choose to ignore it as more of Varric's nonsense, but instead closed his book, picked up his lantern and approached.

“You talk to her, Chuckles. She's very nearly the moodiest damn elf I've ever met, and that's saying something,” Varric grumbled, hoisting himself to his feet and leaving them alone.

Solas's eyes narrowed, and he didn't reply to Varric, but he did sit down in the place Varric had left vacant. “What's all this, then?” he asked quietly.

“Apparently I'm an asshole,” Yvaleth answered crossly, and she took a long pull of the ale Varric had brought her. At least he'd softened his betrayal with alcohol. Solas didn't answer, and finally, the vague but all-permeating sense of his disapproval made her say. “I was...I was talking about what I'll do when the Breach is closed.”

Solas nodded. “And? Speak plainly, _da'len_ , you have been sulking ever since we left Val Royeaux and it wears upon me. And Varric, it would seem.”

“I'm not sulking!” she protested. “But you saw how it was. And—and once the Breach is closed, the Inquisition will be better off without me. I thought maybe I could...do better, be enough, so that I could still at least stay, but... You've seen how they treat me, their superstitious worship. But what when their Herald is no longer needed to repair the sky? I shall shatter, to fall from such a height. It's better I should just go.”

“Ah, you will run away from your duties for the good of the Inquisition. I see.”

Yvaleth made a little face. She _hated_ it when Solas was like this, all cool, mocking logic. “Why are they my duties? My duty is to close the Breach, and that I have said I will do. Why should there be anything else?”

“Because duty is where we find it and seldom announces itself with a glowing green light. As when I found a half-trained mage and made the mistake of thinking her worth teaching and guidance.” If Solas had been cool before, now he was glacial.

Yvaleth was trembling now. “And is my only worth to offer myself up to be despised?”

“Are you truly so weak that you cannot bear the weight of any disapproval? Has the Seeker despised you? Have I?”

“You seem to now,” she whispered. “Perhaps you're not wrong to.”

Solas softened then, just a little. “ _Da'len_ , if I despised you, I would not be discussing the matter with you. But I would not be a friend to you if I indulged your morbid self-pity. You must learn that to do anything in this world is to court someone's disapproval. What happened in Val Royeaux was a blow to the Seeker as well—indeed, much more than to you, who have no ties to the Chantry. And it was hardly an unforeseen outcome. This was a show of good faith. The result was determined long before we arrived.”

“I just...I feel like I failed them,” Yvaleth admitted.

“You will only fail when you cannot accept a setback as a lesson and a challenge for the future. When you use it as an excuse to retreat.”

Yvaleth nodded slowly. “I understand, _hahren_. _Ir abelas_ —please forgive my selfishness.”

To her relief, Solas let the matter go at that and turned the conversation to talk of dreams and ways Yvaleth might learn to traverse the Fade more consciously as she slept. It reminded her of why she had _not_ wished to talk about her idea of leaving with him. Cullen was too dear to consider when she was so unhappy, but so was Solas and his quiet way of teaching, of making her feel valued. Even if this duty held much to be feared, it was still the best thing that had ever happened to her.

 

 

***

 

When they returned to Haven two days later, Yvaleth was glad to be done with the journey. She was tired of Sera's strange, circular chatter, tired of Vivienne's subtly disparaging remarks as she languidly observed Solas giving Yvaleth lessons when they stopped to camp in the evenings. This had been her first trip to Orlais, and her impression had been far from favorable; especially she remembered the cold, masked faces of the bystanders while they watched Revered Mother Hevara being struck down. They hadn't moved to help or intervene, just watched. Were they so removed from reality that they couldn't tell the difference between reality and one of the elaborate theatrical entertainments she had seen advertised?

And while Haven still wasn't _home—_ nowhere was that, not anymore—it was enough of a home that Yvaleth let out a long, relieved breath when she saw the village at the top of their path. Here was her own hearth, her own bed. And here was Cullen.

It was both exciting and terrifying to realize how much she was beginning to depend on Cullen emotionally. With her world constantly turning itself upside down, Cullen and Solas were the two fixed points. And if it was hard to trust the aloof Solas, then it was even harder to give that kind of trust to a human man, a former templar who, if he'd met her a couple of years ago, would have dragged her off to be imprisoned in a mage circle.

But when they drew nearer to Haven and Yvaleth saw the late afternoon sun glinting off Cullen's hair, simple joy chased away all doubts. No matter what worries she might have about Cullen, or what mental knots she might tie herself into, being with him was a comfort; just seeing him was like a tonic.

Cullen hurried to Yvaleth's side to help her down from the tall hart, and she purposely ignored the significant looks the others gave. He placed one hand on her side and one on her hip, mindful of her injury, and Yvaleth couldn't help the broad smile she gave him as she slid down. She didn't say anything, just smiled shyly up at him.

“How did it go?” he asked, once Cassandra joined them.

“Terribly,” Cassandra answered, with her characteristic bluntness. “The Templars have withdrawn from Val Royeaux. Lord Seeker Lucius...” She shook her head unhappily. “He assaulted the Revered Mother and called them to leave.”

“ _What_?” Cullen's expression of general pleasure was immediately wiped away. “The Templars...?”

“We never had a chance,” Cassandra said wearily. “They met us in the marketplace. It was worse than a waste of time. I should have known better.”

“It wasn't all a waste,” Yvaleth put in. “Grand Enchanter Fiona invited me to come to Redcliffe. We still don't know what kind of offer they'll make, but with enough mages to lend their power, closing the Breach is a real possibility. And we've gained some new allies.” She nodded to Sera and Vivienne. “This is Sera, a, um...” She trailed off, trying to find some word other than 'criminal.' “And this is Vivienne, the Orlesian Court Enchanter, who has offered her own aid.”

“I lead the _loyal_ mages,” Vivienne said smoothly. “I know you by reputation, Knight-Captain. It's a pleasure.” And she extended her hand palm down for Cullen to kiss, making Yvaleth's teeth grit.

“That's no longer my title, I'm afraid.” Cullen's tone was curt, but he could not avoid taking Vivienne's hand. Yvaleth noticed, though, that while he bowed low over it, he didn't quite kiss it. “A pleasure.” Then, as Sera, who was scowling slightly, put out _her_ hand in just the same manner, he repeated the gesture, smiling at her. “Welcome to Haven.” But he immediately turned back to Cassandra. “But where is he taking the Templars, why—”

“We'll discuss it in the war room. We'll meet in an hour,” Cassandra interrupted him.

Yvaleth groaned internally. The war room—her least favorite thing about Haven. But there was a great deal to discuss. Cassandra seemed to think appealing to the Templars separately was at least theoretically possible, though Yvaleth thought she was abandoning reason for her prejudices in favor of the Chantry. Perhaps Cullen would agree with her. It all promised another long, unsatisfying wrangle, when all Yvaleth wanted to do was go someplace quiet and not have to talk with anybody—except maybe Cullen.

But after fifteen minutes in the war room, Cullen was decidedly no longer on her list of people she wished to talk to. “In this case, it's all the more important that we make contact with the Templars. There is real danger if they are being led to abandon their duties, and they will see that as well. I can arrange a meeting, I'm sure of it.”

It was, oddly, Leliana who spoke the most sense. “The Templars are more likely to be suspicious of the Herald. Yvaleth can gain the trust of the mages. It might even be a step towards bringing the rebels back into society.”

“Rebel mages are going to be unreliable by definition,” Cullen insisted. “What about this Vivienne and her 'loyal' mages? If she leads them, why did she not _bring_ them? We could be marching on the breach tomorrow if she had.”

“Madame de Fer won't spend her political capital that way,” Leliana said dismissively. “Why she's chosen to come here is a mystery, and I only like mysteries of my own making. It may be innocent, but it may not.”

“Maybe it's a mystery we can probe a bit,” Yvaleth put in, relieved to agree on one basic point. “Leliana, could you put some choice bits of misinformation in her way? Then if that information surfaces elsewhere, we'll know.”

Leliana's eyes widened just a little, and then she laughed. “I do believe you're starting to get the hang of this. Yes, we'll see precisely whom she's talking to.”

But after that one shining moment of concord, it went back to the circular wrangling that gave Yvaleth a headache. And finally, more to end the whole business than to assert her will, she said abruptly, “Since I am the one who has to go, I am going to Redcliffe. If Grand Enchanter Fiona's terms aren't acceptable, then we can consider the Templars as a backup plan. You're only even guessing that the Templars would be able to exercise any real control over the breach. They might just dampen _my_ magic and make the whole exercise useless. Cassandra, when can we leave?”

A shocked silence had descended over the war room, for it was the first time Yvaleth had spoken so commandingly. She began to fear she had overstepped herself and was in for an hour of carping about her rudeness, but then Cassandra said, “Two days. This should be our first priority, and we still have business in the Hinterlands anyway.”

Yvaleth had to smother the sigh of relief at that. “Then if there's nothing else? I'd like to sit on a chair instead of a horse for a change.”

And at that, the meeting she had thought interminable dissolved. They were funny, humans. If they'd been elves, her words would have been considered insanely disrespectful and selfish even if she _were_ their leader, and they would have spent another two hours discussing that. But they had seemed almost glad to have someone to make the decision. They weren't like elves—for them, the process was less important than the outcome, any outcome so long as they were doing something. Yvaleth supposed for these particular humans it made sense. Cassandra and Leliana were still reeling from the loss of Divine Justinia, the leader whom they'd followed so devotedly. Josephine was someone better at implementing other people's decisions than making her own, and Cullen...as much power as the Templars had, they were fundamentally expected to take orders from the Chantry.

And now a Dalish apostate was telling them what to do. Probably their Andraste would be howling with disapproval from the Fade, or wherever she was. But if so, Yvaleth couldn't hear it—she actually felt excellent, as if she'd pricked a sore and swollen blister and relieved it of its power. The sun was shining, and the world felt bright and full of possibility, very different from how it had seemed a few days ago when she'd been planning her departure.

Was this what it felt like to be powerful, to be able to shape life to your will and to trust in that? If so, it was very new, very precious and fragile still to her. It had come down to the fact that she was the one who had to go. She was the one pushed to the fore in every situation, and that, she supposed, did give her some measure of power, even if none of them were entirely sure how Yvaleth fit into the Inquisition in the longer term.

 

***

 

Cullen was absently eating a bowl of stew and looking over reports in his tent when Yvaleth came in. He looked up when he heard her tread, and when she pushed back the tent flap, one side of his mouth quirked up in a smile because she seemed to be exaggerating her gestures to make as much noise as possible—he supposed too many people had complained about the soft-footed daughter of the forest sneaking up on them. “Hello, Yvaleth.”

“Cullen, I found a big batch of rashvine nettles for you on the way back from Orlais. And I wrapped the roots in wet sacking to keep them fresh. I only had dried ones before.” She said nothing more, seeming to consider the conclusion to her declaration self-evident.

“That's...good?” She had mentioned nettles before, but he'd rather hoped it was a way of teasing him.

“So I need to flog you with them. They'll improve your circulation wonderfully. I think it's exactly what's needed to wake up your body. Your hands were cold when you helped me down,” she added, looking accusatory.

“Yvaleth, it's cold outside, in case you hadn't noticed. I really don't think...”

“And that's why I don't trust you to do it yourself,” Yvaleth said, wrinkling her nose. “Come on. We should go up to my cabin in case you yell. I wouldn't want to shame you.”

“You're serious about this. You're not trying to get back at me for calling the Redcliffe mages unreliable?”

“No, though since you left your order, it's a bit of a cheap slur, isn't it? Cullen, even if I'm not a very nice person, I wouldn't betray my duty as a healer like that.”

He flinched a little at her reproof, but he also couldn't argue with it. Probably it was a cheap slur. If he couldn't bear the abuses of the Templars, why would he expect mages to? “Fine,” he growled, standing up. If Yvaleth wanted to flog him with nettles, then he would...let her. Maker, exactly how hard had he fallen for this woman? Still he stomped up the hill next to her, his face set in a scowl. It worsened when he looked over at Yvaleth and noticed that she was trying not to laugh. “What's so funny?”

At that she lost the fight, a peal of giggles escaping her. “You're so silly. Elders of ninety used to come to us for nettle treatments on their arthritis. And here you are, young and strong, pouting like—”

“I'm sorry I asked,” Cullen cut her off.

Inside the cabin, Yvaleth was brisk and businesslike. “Bare your chest—and take off your boots too. You may keep your breeches on, but roll them up to the knee. I need to make sure your legs are getting all the circulation they need—those spasms and dead spells you talked about are probably a symptom of that.”

Then she paused. “Cullen...” And all her briskness turned to shy hesitation. “You will still...I mean, you aren't really angry? Because if you won't like me afterwards...”

“If I say I won't, would I get out of this, by any chance?”

She snorted, exasperated. “No, I'd just direct Adan to complete the treatment. But truly, you aren't really angry?”

Her wistfulness was like a hand squeezing around Cullen's heart, so tender that it hurt. “No. I'm not really angry. If I had better manners, I would be thanking you instead of growling like a bear. I'll try to behave,” he offered sheepishly, unbuckling his breastplate.

But his resolve to behave lasted only until he was undressed save for his breeches and the first _thwack_ of the nettles across his back. “Ah—is it supposed to be so—mmph.” Remembering what she'd said about him yelling, he was determined to show her he wasn't the baby she thought him, but each touch of the leafy stalk spread fire across his skin. She worked lightly but thoroughly, seemingly determined to cover every inch of his skin with pain and fire and itching.

“It will fade quickly once I'm done, and I'll use a soothing cream.”

Cullen had no coherent response to that as she'd moved from his back to his front, and nothing like this should ever happen to a man's nipples. Ever. “Andraste's earwax!” He couldn't be still under the torment, and he began jogging lightly from foot to foot in agony. And she was laughing again, batting her horrible torture herbs lightly down his arms and giggling like a girl. “This is—ah!—not funny, Yvaleth, I swear to the Maker if you don't— _fuck_ —stop laughing I'll put you over my knee and give you a taste of your own medicine you little—sst— _sadist_!”

“I'm sorry,” she wailed, tears in her eyes, as undone by laughter as he was by the pain. She batted at his legs and the tops of his feet, seemingly finding it even more hilarious to watch his feet as he tried to dance away from the pain. But finally, Yvaleth threw the herb away into the corner. “There. S-s-sit down and I'll get the cream,” she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, still laughing.

Cullen couldn't sit, he could barely stand in a vague approximation of stillness. Looking down, he could see a fiery rash of red and white welts standing up on his skin. He was about to make a caustic remark about the cure being worse than the disease when suddenly, his right leg twitched and he felt a hot, thrumming sensation under the skin. Immediately his leg went pins and needles as if awaking after a long numbness, and he groaned, almost falling backwards to sit on her bed.

“Are you all right?” Yvaleth hurried over with the jar in her hands.

He nodded, gritting his teeth. “Just...I think I got some of that blood circulation you promised me.” It hurt, but it also made his foot feel warm and alive, in a way he hadn't even realized it _wasn't_ before.

“Oh, I'm glad,” she sighed, opening the jar and scooping out a big daub of cream. She started with his shoulders, spreading it gently across his skin, her touch featherlight against the angry rash. “This will help, I promise.”

And it did; though he could still feel the heat of the rash on his skin, it stopped being overpowering everywhere the cream touched. She made him turn so she could do his back, then knelt down at his feet, taking them gently into her lap to rub the cream over his legs until she had covered every part of his rash-ridden skin. There was something gentle and peaceful that always came over her face when she was tending to someone, and Cullen just watched her, absorbed. “There,” she said softly, still lightly stroking his ankles and the tops of his feet. “That's better—and your feet feel so warm now!”

In between her stroking, though, he caught a glimpse of her palm—it too was covered in the rash of reddened welts. He frowned, reaching down to catch her wrist. Yvaleth tried to pull it away, but he didn't let her, drawing it close so he could see the heat of it. “Why in the world didn't you wear gloves?” he demanded, only now thinking to ask. It was all up her fingers, too, everywhere she'd been gripping the stalk.

“Well, I told you to be brave and not mind it. How could I do that if I couldn't bear just a little of the pain myself?” she asked, looking uncomfortable, but no longer trying to take her hand back.

It was such a stupid, touching answer that Cullen wanted to kiss her and scold her for being such an idiot and wrap her up in his arms all at once. But instead he lifted the little hand to his lips, kissing the swollen palm lightly.

“Cullen...” she whispered. “It's not anything, really.”

“Hush,” he rumbled, his lips only inches from her skin. And he couldn't help smiling down into her anxious green eyes. Then, softly, “I still like you, Yvaleth.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This use of nettles is actually a common treatment among modern herbalists!
> 
> Also, question. I originally tagged this fic mature rather than explicit because I was a bit new to the AO system, and tend to think of my smut as "Hard R" rather than "X." When we finally (don't hold your breath, slow dance) get to sexytime, would it be better for me to create a separate work in a collection and add naughty bits there as "interchapters," or just bite the bullet and update the rating? I don't want to bait-and-switch people who are here for steamy but not smutty, but I also tend to rather twine the romance and plot stuff together. As an additional piece of data, there is a solid chance these two will evolve into a gentle Dom/sub relationship (mainly of the tender, helping partner feel safe variety, because Cullen is a cinnamon roll). I'd really appreciate input on this!


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Yvaleth notices all the things I kick myself for not having considered in my first playthrough...

The trip to Redcliffe, instead of being the easy path that Yvaleth had hopefully imagined on receiving Fiona's invitation, offered only new worries. If Alexius had bent time to beat her to Redcliffe, what else could he do? Especially with a population of mages, well-trained, with their mettle honed by the war with the templars? The invitation that was waiting for Yvaleth when she returned to Haven felt like an insult, and when she dug into the details of its arrival with Josephine, she was quite sure he'd used time magic again to make his message arrive at Haven before she did. It was a gratuitous display of power, intended to intimidate, Yvaleth was certain.

It was late, long past dinner, Yvaleth thought, when the war room council on the matter finally concluded, but there was a light in Solas's window. She knocked softly on his door, then entered without waiting for permission, such formalities having been more or less abandoned by them over the months he'd been teaching her. Other formalities prevailed: he was reading a book and did not look up at her entry, so Yvaleth went to the fire and sat on her heels, waiting for him to acknowledge her.

He didn't keep her waiting long; he copied something out on a piece of parchment, then tucked it in his book to mark the place. “Have you eaten?” he asked.

Yvaleth shook her head wearily. “I just escaped their clutches. _Hahren_ , when I think of your stories of the ancient elven people and how councils could take centuries, it almost makes me glad that we're mortal now. I _hate_ listening to them bicker.”

Solas opened a cupboard and took out an apple and a dense nut cake, handing them to Yvaleth. “But such conclaves were marked more by silence than words in those days, _da'len_. Your councils only talk. They do not spend equal time listening.”

“ _Ma serannas_.” Yvaleth broke the cake in half and began to eat. When she had finished, she threw the apple core in the fire and licked her fingers. “I suppose not. I think that even makes it take longer; we have to say everything three times before anyone actually hears it. In any case, I'm going back to Redcliffe the day after tomorrow.” She paused, then carefully said, “I would like you to stay here.”

She watched as Solas's eyes flickered with surprise before he resumed his mask of perfect calm. “As you wish, certainly. My purpose has always been to aid you, not to hinder. May I ask your reasoning?”

“It's a trap,” Yvaleth answered bluntly. “We shall try to turn it to our advantage, but if we should fail...if I should not return...then you are the only person who might be able to find another way to close the Breach.”

“You put a great deal of faith in me, _da'len_. There are many mages who might—”

“ _Hahren_...” Yvaleth hesitated for a long moment. For weeks, the suspicions had been swirling inside her, until they had crystallized into certainty. To speak of them, though, still felt dangerous and foolish. But finally she said, “I am young, I know, probably very naïve and certainly very silly. But I am not stupid. I do not know _exactly_ what you are, but I know perfectly well that you are not a self-taught apostate who just chanced to be near the Conclave when his particular field of knowledge was most urgently required.”

“Am I not?” His gaze was still perfectly steady, but Yvaleth could sense something _other_ rising up within him at her words. The same dangerous quality that she'd glimpsed a few times before.

“No,” she said with conviction, not looking away from his intense gaze. “You _might_ be a Dreamer who learned lifetimes worth of lore wandering in the Fade, though even that I doubt. And you _might_ be so gifted that you also mastered multiple fields of magic with no teachers to guide you in the waking world. I could not, but I am not proud enough to pretend there are not people with gifts far exceeding my own. But you could not be all those things and be who you are. You would be different.”

“Different how?” The candlelight slid over Solas's shiny head as he cocked it, still as perfectly calm as if they were discussing a difficult passage in a book.

“A man with enough self-will to achieve so much by the time he reached middle years would not always stand to the back as you do. He would not treat me the way you do. I know you think ill of the Dalish, but I have seen exceptional people, at the _arlathvhen_. I have seen how they behave, how rarely they stoop to draw others up after them, or even if they do, how they plume themselves on their generosity and delight in the adulation of their disciples. If you were a very old man you might be as you are; some gain that wisdom in time. But not after forty or fifty years.”

“And what is it you think I am instead? You said you don't know _exactly_ ; is that a way to conceal the fact that you've constructed a pretty story to make me a fabulous monster?”

“I know you're not a demon,” Yvaleth returned, not letting herself be distracted by his thinly-veiled insult.

“On what evidence?” he rapped back, always the teacher, always questioning.

Yvaleth couldn't smother a bit of a laugh. “On that evidence, _hahren_. Demons do not want you to consider things too closely. They have tried me, in my dreams, and everything has always been too easy, too simple. At first I thought you might be a _very_ clever pride demon, one who fills me with pride bit by bit so I won't be too suspicious. But...” and here she finally dropped her gaze, blushing a little. “If so, I am lost to you, for I believe what pride I have now in my abilities is earned. Others—others seem to think so as well.”

“And if I am not a demon?”

“I believe you are a spirit of my ancestors made manifest—or something like. A very powerful spirit. I think I have always sensed your power, even when you have tried to keep it in check. We Dalish are proud. I would not have so easily deferred to such as you pretend to be. I think you owe a debt. That is why you are not proud and boastful. The opinions of the people here, even mine, matter nothing to you. You are here to pay your debt. Am I wrong?” She had spent weeks puzzling over this, and it was the closest thing to an answer that she could arrive at. Even if she had wished to romanticize Solas, he was not a spirit of boundless benevolence. Just as she knew he could not be what he pretended, she knew he was not that either.

Solas finally rose from his chair and moved toward where she sat. For a moment he loomed over her, then he squatted down on his heels and put his hand under her chin, making her look straight into his eyes. Yvaleth looked back fearlessly. Not courageously—fearlessly. No matter how long she tried the idea that he might be malevolent, there to sabotage their efforts, the thought could not find any purchase within her. He was dangerous, yes. But not to her. Finally, he smiled, slow and predatory in an unsettling way. “I consistently underestimate you, _da'len_. Perhaps it is such checks that keep me from becoming the braggart you think I ought to be? Have you discussed these interesting speculations with anyone else?”

“No, _hahren_. They would not understand. They would be afraid. But I am not afraid. And I would have an answer, please. Am I wrong?”

“I am not a spirit,” Solas answered, still holding her gaze.

“I said something like,” she reminded him. “Please do not play with me. I have trusted you. Please.” Yvaleth's calm slipped again, and there was a quaver in her voice. She might have been able to lay out her ideas and reasoning with cool logic, but he had been the first person to show her kindness, the first to make her feel cared for, and the pain of knowing he had been deceiving her all along was hard to master.

He nodded slowly, releasing her but not rising. “You are not entirely wrong,” he said finally. “I owe a debt.”

Tears blurred Yvaleth's vision then, for some tiny part of her had hoped desperately to be wrong, that he would laugh away her suspicions. That he would be what he had pretended, the man she had come to trust. Her voice was thick when she spoke. “ _Ma serannas_. Then I will let you pay it.”

She moved to rise, but his hand shot out again, this time catching her arm. “Why are you crying?” he demanded roughly. He sounded almost angry.

Yvaleth wanted to run away, to hide her tears in the darkness, to tear the foolish affections from her heart so she could trample and bury them. But his grip on her arm was tight, and however she twisted her face away, she could still feel his eyes. “Because I thought you liked me,” she admitted finally in a long, tearful sigh. “I knew most of it was for the Breach, to make things right. But I thought...I thought some of it was for me. Was mine.” She tried to smile, using her free hand to try and dash away her tears. “I told you I was very silly. Silly people are always being hurt. Please let me go.”

Solas snorted then, unguarded and deeply amused, and it shocked Yvaleth so much that she looked at him, baffled by this response. “I do pity the desire demon who tried your dreams, _da'len_. Or the pride demon, or any other except perhaps despair. You tie yourself into knots so nicely they wouldn't have had a chance.”

“Meaning?” she shot back, angry now.

And then Solas shifted position so that he was sitting, mirroring her. He leaned in close, so that his forehead pressed against hers, his eyes sliding shut. “Meaning...some of it is yours, Yvaleth. For you. And as much as my debt may cost you in the end, I would not take that from you.”

***

It was late the night before their departure when Yvaleth knocked on Cassandra's door, holding two tankards of cider in her free hand. Cassandra, when she opened up, looked rather grubby and tired, and she sounded ungracious when she said, “Yes, what is it?”

Yvaleth held out one of the ciders. “You said at dinner you had to clean your armor. I thought I'd keep you company.” If Cassandra had even a tiny part of the doubts Yvaleth had about their fate once inside Redcliffe Castle, then she certainly wouldn't be sleeping anytime soon. Usually Yvaleth would have taken her own uncertainties to Solas, or even Cullen. But the realization that Solas had been deceiving her for months still hurt, even though she'd consciously made the decision to continue trusting him. And Cullen...well, she wasn't sure he was even speaking to her after how she'd snapped at him during the last war table meeting.

Cassandra looked about to refuse, and Yvaleth gave a little sigh, preparing herself for rejection. But then the Seeker seemed to change her mind. “That would be very pleasant. Come in.”

There were two piles of armor on the floor, and a lot of rags and an open jar of grease. Yvaleth dragged a straight-backed chair to face where Cassandra was sitting on her bed. “Can I help?” she asked, taking a long drink of the strong, dry cider.

“If you like.” Cassandra passed her a rag and one of her greaves. “They are still in good condition—we have not been back long. But I always go over it before we set out, to oil and check the straps.”

Yvaleth nodded, setting to happily. It was easier, when her hands were occupied, not to be self-conscious. “You must be as strong as a bear to wear this all day. I couldn't even stand up in it.”

Cassandra laughed, deep and throaty. “And according to Sera, I am wasting my gifts by not _punching_ a bear.”

Yvaleth giggled at that. “I've seen you deal with bears. Not a fair fight.”

There was a companionable silence for a while, as the two worked, which Yvaleth finally broke by saying, “Cassandra...why are you letting me go? I know you don't like it.” Of course, there wasn't much to like about walking into a trap set by a Tevinter magister, but Cassandra had made clear that she didn't approve of the idea in the least.

Cassandra lifted her eyebrows. “Letting you? Can I stop you? I seem to recall you being very clear about how you were not interested in taking orders.”

Yvaleth's face flushed at that. _That_ was why she wasn't sure if Cullen was speaking to her. He had made the mistake of saying, “We can't order you to do this,” and Yvaleth, already on edge, had given him an earful about how if she was in his chain of command someone should have let her know, and then sarcastically suggested he'd better tell the quartermaster she had a lot of back pay owing.

“Well...yes, but you're helping me do it. We both know perfectly well I couldn't go to Redcliffe without you and a lot of backup.”

“I'm glad we both know that,” Cassandra said dryly, picking up her tankard for a long drink. “I can't say I was entirely sure you did.”

“I'm not stupid!” Yvaleth protested. “I know you think this is reckless. And I know it's dangerous. But I think it's more dangerous to let Alexius mess around with time, especially with an army of obedient mages at his service. If he's using rift energies, he's almost certainly weakening the Veil even further. We could end up closing the Breach only to find out he's created another one.”

Cassandra sighed. “I know. I suppose that is why I am letting you do this, if you want to consider it so. You have been given a hard and terrible task. It is our duty to support you in how you see fit to do it. And you have done well, so far.”

Yvaleth was stunned. Done well? What had she done? Rounded up stray farm animals in the Hinterlands, angered the head of Cassandra's order into an open division, and had her best chance at an alliance preempted by a time-twisting magister. “If this is what doing well looks like,” she said, with an effort at humor, “I would hate to see the results of doing badly.”

“So would I. But you _have_ done well. I must confess I had doubts about you, in the beginning. It seemed so impossible, that the Maker should send us an apostate elf who doesn't even honor him.” Yvaleth began to protest, but Cassandra lifted a hand, cutting her off. “But I have watched you. Even without faith, your heart tends always to righteousness.”

“I do have faith,” Yvaleth put in, a little annoyed. “But you don't exactly have any shrines to my gods handy here.”

Cassandra shook her head. “My point is, you are a servant of the Light. This path is strange and difficult, but I am proud to walk it beside you.”

Yvaleth had to swallow hard to fight past the lump in her throat then. “And I honor you, Cassandra. If it weren't for you, I think I would have tried to run away. I'm still not sure Leliana isn't planning to have me killed.”

Cassandra smiled wryly. “Not that I am aware of. Leliana seems colder than she truly is. There is a tender, faithful heart in her; that is why she guards it so closely. And Divine Justinia's death was a great pain to her. She was like a mother to Leliana. But she is coming to respect you. That is much.”

“What about Cullen?” Yvaleth couldn't help saying, passing back a cleaned and oiled greave and receiving a dirty pauldron. “He disapproves of everything I do.”

Cassandra gave a snort. “He disapproves of everything that involves placing you in danger. There is a significant difference. You cannot be entirely blind to his affections. Even I have noticed it.”

“Well...no, but he—he always holds himself back from me, when we are alone,” Yvaleth confessed. “Once, he kissed my hand. But he's never...”

“That is more evidence of his affection than any lack. Cullen is a serious man. If he had kissed you, taken you to bed, I might call it a light fancy. But kissing your hand...” Cassandra gave a little, almost wistful sigh. “That is very sweet.”

“I wish I hadn't spoken to him like that. He just gets under my skin so much sometimes! Especially the things he says about mages.”

Cassandra looked sober. “He has not spoken to you about his past?”

“Not...directly. He said once that I reminded him of a woman he failed, and he said he wasn't a good man when he lived in Kirkwall. But he won't talk about it.”

“Give him time. And in the meantime, try to be patient. His words are wrong, I know, but his heart is not.”

Yvaleth nodded, gloomy, then lifted her half-drained tankard in one hand. “Then here's to making sure we have time to give.” Cassandra, smiling wryly, bumped her tankard against Yvaleth's, and the two drained the cider to its dregs, willing away the danger that pressed on them for just a little longer.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to those who gave me some input on the rating/tags! I've updated the rating now, even though STILL NO KISSES. (BUT I just wrote The Kiss finally the other day, and the sweetness made me squee. I hope it will be worth waiting for.) I so much appreciate all of you commenting and leaving kudos. It makes me so happy.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which bonds of loyalty are tested.

“Ser!” The sentry skidded into Cullen's tent and saluted hastily. “The Seeker has been spotted, and the red hart!”

“Already?” Cullen was on his feet before the sentry had finished his sentence. “We had a raven, but I didn't expect them for days yet. What about the rest of the party?”

“No, ser. Just those.”

Cullen dashed down to the gates, but when he shielded his eyes to look at the path, his heart stopped. He could see Cassandra's helmet, her tall figure atop the black stallion she rode. But the great red hart was riderless. “Maker, no...” he breathed.

It didn't make any sense. The raven had been good news—or as good as the news “a bunch of rebel mages are on their way” could be. They'd sprung the trap, captured Alexius, and...now what? Bandits on the road? Why had the two split off from the main party?

But after a few moments in which Cullen scarcely breathed, the shapes became clearer, and he could see a glint of dark gold in front of Cassandra's body. Wrapped in the Seeker's protective arms was Yvaleth, her head constantly moving, as if questing for something.

Cullen didn't wait for them to ride up, but literally ran down the path, regardless of his heavy armor. “Cassandra! What's happened? Where are the others?”

Yvaleth quivered slightly and seemed to shift in Cassandra's arms, but the Seeker squeezed her and said a low word, and she stilled. To Cullen, Cassandra said, “The others are behind, with the mages. They're on foot. But...we could not be delayed. We came ahead.”

“Leliana,” Yvaleth said in a hoarse, fretful voice. “Please, I must see Leliana...” Her eyes were deeply shadowed, and her color was white as death. He could never have imagined Yvaleth could look _frightening_ to him, but her looks just then sent a chill through him.

Cullen cast a worried look up at Cassandra, matching the slow pace of the mounts—who were blown, he could see that clearly—as they approached the stables. “What—“

Cassandra shook her head slightly. But once she'd thrown the reins to the stable boy, Cullen was right by her side, and she handed Yvaleth down into his waiting arms with the utmost care. Yvaleth squirmed free in a moment, seeming not to see him, and headed towards the gates. “Yvaleth, what's happened?” he called.

Cassandra quickly dismounted and joined Cullen as he followed Yvaleth's determined figure trudging up the hill. “She hasn't slept in three days. I don't know if she is ill, or has lost her mind, or if she is just very determined to see Leliana. Alexius sent her and Dorian into the future, and apparently it was terrible. When she first came back, she seemed well, unharmed, but the first night in camp...well, I thought it better to ride ahead.”

Cullen looked anxiously at Yvaleth, whose slow, clumsy steps were nothing like her usual springing tread. “What do we do?”

“We let her see Leliana,” Cassandra answered pragmatically. “And you should go get Solas. If anyone can help her, it is he.”

Relieved to have a plan, even if it was only, 'Find Solas and hope he knows what to do,” Cullen immediately sprinted ahead toward the apostate mage's cabin. He paused at Leliana's tent and let her know what to expect as best he could in a few breathless words. Finally, he reached Solas's cabin and threw open the door, not bothering to knock. “You need to come quickly. It's Yvaleth.”

Solas stood immediately. “What's happened?”

“I don't know. She doesn't seem hurt, but Cassandra says she hasn't slept in three days, and she didn't even seem to see me. Alexius did...something, I don't even begin to understand. Hurry. She'll be with Leliana.”

The two hurried to Leliana's tent, where Cullen heard, “—perfectly well, little goose. I have nothing to forgive you for,” in Leliana's bemused voice. When he entered, he found Yvaleth on her knees before Leliana, her arms wrapped around the spy mistress's waist, clinging. And, even more startling, Leliana was stroking Yvaleth's hair in a gentle, almost motherly way.

“I won't let them hurt you. Not any of you. I swear it. Say you know that. Say you know I won't let them hurt you,” came that same hoarse voice that hardly sounded like Yvaleth at all.

With considerable difficulty, Leliana extricated herself from Yvaleth's grasp sufficiently to step back just a little. Taking Yvaleth's face between her hands, she said, “Of course I know that. You're our hero.” And she stooped to kiss Yvaleth's forehead.

“ _Da'len_ ,” Solas said in a sharp voice. “Come here.”

Yvaleth seemed to snap from her daze at that, and she half-turned, then tried to stand, but stumbled immediately. Solas moved, faster than Cullen could, and stooped to pick up the fallen girl in his arms. He held her lightly, stronger than Cullen would have expected. Yvaleth said something, but it was in elven, and Cullen had no idea what she was saying. Nor did Solas seem to heed her overmuch. Instead, the mage looked at Cullen. “Tell Adan I need a sleeping draught brought to her quarters immediately.” And without waiting for any acknowledgment, he turned and strode away, leaving Cullen assailed by a confused mix of jealousy and relief.

Leliana was the first to break the shocked silence. “What was that?”

Cassandra, who sounded utterly exhausted, explained as best she could what Yvaleth and Dorian had given her to understand. “When she first came back, she was _fine_. Strong and angry.” Cullen spared a thought to wonder how 'strong and angry' was her description of a desirable mental state, but then again, probably Nevarran mothers cooed that over their infant children. He was quite sure baby Cassandra would have been strong and angry.

“But that first night in camp...something changed. She woke me up in the night, demanding to hear my voice. Not just once, but three or four times. By morning, her obsession had fixed on Leliana. She was riding ahead, too fast—I had to catch her. She was so agitated I agreed we could come ahead. I had to watch her every moment when we camped at night, to make sure she wouldn't run away. If her precious hart hadn't been with us, I believe she would have demanded we kill the horses to hurry.”

 _Something changed_ , said in that tone of voice, about a mage, more or less summed up all of Cullen's worst nightmares made manifest. “Sometimes—sometimes soldiers do not react to a battle until days later,” he said, sounding desperate, even to himself. Maker, let it be just that. Not her. Not Yvaleth.

Cassandra nodded, but her eyes reflected the same bleak speculations Cullen was making. “Yes. It is possible. She has never responded so to battle before, but what happened to her was...extraordinary, to say the least.”

“You said the future was full of demons. Could one of them have come back with her?” Leliana asked, and Cullen could observe the slightest tremor in her lips.

Cassandra threw up her hands. “I don't know! Anything is possible. If so, Solas may be able to assist her, or Vivienne. If...if it is not too late.”

***

Heavy. Everything was so heavy, and Yvaleth wondered for a moment if she had woken up dead. Her eyelids didn't want to move, her hands and feet felt like blocks of stone. Only the tip of her dry, heavy tongue flicked unhappily.

An arm under her shoulders, lifting her as if she were not made of lead or stone. Water. Cool and fresh, pressed to her lips, and Yvaleth drank and drank until there was no more, then made a little whining sound of disappointment. Finally mustering the strength to peel her eyes open, she saw Solas sitting over her, a wooden cup in his hand.

“ _Hahren_.” Her voice came out in a dry whisper. “More, please?” Her thoughts were too heavy to follow. Only the thirst, the sweetness of the water could penetrate the cloud that fogged her mind.

Solas refilled the cup from the pitcher on the nightstand, holding it to her lips and tipping it ever so slowly, letting the water trickle between her dry lips. When she had finished that cup too, she was beginning to feel stronger, and she struggled to sit up. “What—what happened?” Why was she here in bed? Had the Mark caused her another fit of illness?

“Do you not remember?” Solas asked, his brow creased with concern.

“I remember...Alexius. We came back. We stopped him. And—and we were coming home. And...” A flash of memory, cool lips pressed to her forehead. “Leliana kissed me. That can't be right,” Yvaleth frowned.

“One would think not, but it is. You were frantic to see she was well after your visions of the future. Then I brought you back here and forcibly dosed you with a sleeping potion. You bit me and spat on me.”

Yvaleth didn't remember that part, until another wisp of memory emerged, fingers holding her nose tightly closed. “ _I-ir abel--_ ,” she said in a tiny voice.

Solas cut her off, shrugging brusquely. “I don't think you had much idea it was me or even what you were doing. You've brought back a...visitor with you.”

“A visitor?” Yvaleth mumbled, confused. “Dorian?”

“A despair demon. It is not quite through the Veil yet, but...it has focused its attentions upon you. And given your unique abilities, it needs only you to enter this world.”

Panic surged within her. “A demon? I—abomination?” she stammered, horrified.

“Not yet,” Solas said firmly. “Not at all, I hope. Tell me, what happened after you left Redcliffe Castle?”

“I...” Yvaleth tried to focus, to organize the jumbled kaleidoscope of memories. “We offered the mages an alliance.”

His lips twitched. “From what I gather, _we_ is a rather subjective way of putting the matter, but yes. And then?”

“We started organizing them, made them pack their things.” She wrinkled her nose. “They were exhausting. We didn't get out of the city until late, but Cassandra insisted. We camped a few miles from Redcliffe, and then they complained some more. And...I was in the tent, with Cassandra. Could hear her breathing. Made me feel safe. And then—” She stiffened as the memories returned. The nightmares. Leliana praying as she died, again and again. Cassandra and Varric, corrupted and broken. Her fault. Her fault. Always her fault. Tears rose in her eyes, and she looked up at Solas miserably. “I couldn't protect them,” she choked out.

“You did protect them,” Solas said softly. “It attacked you through your dreams. It used the forms created by your experience in the future to weaken you.”

“I let a demon in?” Anguish rolled through her, and she closed her eyes. Of course she had. Of course she had failed them, just as she always would...

“No!” Solas's voice was sharp now, and he smacked her cheek, only hard enough to sting a little and make her open her eyes again. “You _fought_ a demon. In the only way you knew how—by refusing to sleep and by reassuring yourself that your fears were not real.”

“But...but you said it's still here...”

“It is. And it has its hooks in nicely. That's why I had to block your connection to the Fade while you slept. You needed to recover strength without being prey to its manipulations.”

“Then what now? How do I make it go away?”

“We will have to go into the Fade,” Solas said. “Dislodge whatever hold it has found, kill it if possible.”

“We?” Yvaleth asked in a little voice. Ever since he'd more or less confirmed her suspicions, it had been hard to see Solas the same way. He behaved exactly the same, a mixture of protective and irritably kind, but her perception could not return to what it had been.

He seemed to know what she was thinking, for he lifted an eyebrow. “If you have a better guide in mind, I'm delighted to cede the task, of course.”

For just a moment, Yvaleth considered that. Vivienne wouldn't do—Yvaleth couldn't define exactly why, except that she felt like a bumptious child under the mage's cool gaze, and that didn't seem like it would be helpful under the circumstances. Dorian _might,_ though. She trusted Dorian. In him was something Yvaleth recognized immediately, some fierce self-will that had persevered through much that sought to dim or destroy it. But still, he wouldn't be a _better_ guide than Solas. In fact, the only argument against Solas was that her trust was so much damaged. She had thought herself very mature and pragmatic in the way she had handled her realization about him, but now Yvaleth wondered if she had not been overestimating herself. She wished she had never uncovered his deception and could turn to him as easily as before.

“Nothing is simple anymore,” she murmured sadly.

“No. But it never was simple—not truly. None of this is, and no one.”

That was probably true, but not much comfort. Still, the dilemma facing her was a practical one. Either she trusted Solas to guide her through the Fade, or she navigated it alone, or waited for Dorian. If Solas could not be trusted to protect her from a demon, then she had already made a terrible mistake, placing much more than her own life at risk. And if she had, it scarcely mattered what became of her. “All right,” she said finally. “Tell me what to do.”

In response, Solas pulled out a leather pouch full of sticky dried buds and a pipe. “Golden lotus,” he explained. “The rarest of them all. It will let you move directly into the Fade without the confusion of sleep.” He packed the pipe carefully and handed it to Yvaleth, then went and lit a spill in the fire.

Yvaleth choked violently on her first draw from the pipe, but Solas was patient, and after several long draws, she could feel the edges of the world around her gently dissolving. Not just the world around her—the world inside her, too. Now nothing was sharp or painful, only a bright, serene medley of experiences all flowing around and through one another.

“It's all one thing,” she murmured drowsily.

“Of course it is,” Solas smiled. “Now hold only one thing in your mind: the promise you made to Leliana. Do you remember?”

And she did. Her memories were no longer a confused jangle, but rose up in her mind, orderly and biddable. “I won't let them hurt you...”

Her last conscious perception was of Solas settling cross-legged on the floor beside the bed and closing his eyes. Then the softness of the drug overtook her altogether, and Yvaleth fell gently into the place of dreams.

And Yvaleth was back in Alexius's throne room, hearing prayers flowing from Leliana's lips as her deadly arrows flew forth. But this time, instead of the scene ending when Dorian pulled her through the rift, as it had in real life, or looping as it had in dreams, it continued. Leliana's neck twisting, her dead body hitting the floor...and then rising again.

“You swore to us,” she rasped, her head at a horrible, wrong angle, her chest torn open by cruel claws. “ _I won't let them hurt you_...but you did. Do you think it wasn't real, because _you_ could go back? Do you think Cassandra is any less dead, that my pain and fear didn't matter?”

“No...no, I know it was real,” Yvaleth moaned. “I know. But it was the only way to save you...”

“To save me? Do I _look_ saved?” Leliana dug her fingers into the deep wound in her chest and pulled, tearing the muscle away from bone, and Yvaleth cringed at the disgusting sound of flesh parting, the sight of so much blood, so much...

“I had to. Y-you told me to. It was the only way.”

“The only way for _you_. It's always about you, isn't it, Yvaleth? How many of those recruits who worship you will die before your war ends? A hundred? A thousand? How much blood will be shed in your name? Because you are 'blessed' by a god you don't even honor.”

And then a quiet voice came from behind Yvaleth. “ _Da'len_.” Turning, she saw Dorian, but the eyes that looked out at her from Dorian's face were not those of the Tevinter mage. “That is not Leliana.”

“Am I not? This blood is real. This _pain_ is real. Why shouldn't I live here? She let me die...” Leliana smiled, horribly. “Doesn't she owe me this?”

“What did the real Leliana say to you? Remember, Yvaleth.” For all its quiet, there was urgency in the voice.

Yvaleth drew in a deep breath, and tried to recall the feeling of Leliana's lips on her forehead. _Of course you won't. You're our hero_. “I won't let you hurt them...demon.”

At that, the false Leliana gave a horrible hiss, and then she seemed to melt away like the wax of a burning candle, as did the walls of the throne room, revealing a sunlit wood. Not just any wood—Yvaleth's wood, the one to the north of the stream where the Lavellan clan had camped for most of her life. She knew every stone, every sprawling root, the precise tension of every branch in the leafy chestnut overhead. And before the mossy statue of Fen'harel where she had wept and prayed and left flowers as a child stood her mother, her dark hair streaked with white, her shoulders hunched in a perpetually defensive stance, her face bitter with life's disappointments.

“ _Lanalin_...” Yvaleth whispered, feeling the familiar twist in her gut: the sense of inadequacy, fear and anger that had ruled her unhappy girlhood.

“My little disappointment.” Yrina's voice was slow and deliberate, dripping with malice. “We knew you would return. Even the _shemlen_ could not embrace such a useless encumbrance for long.”

Yvaleth's shoulders drooped as if a heavy weight had fallen upon them, until there was an eerie semblance between her figure and the one now eying her with disgust. That 'we' was all too familiar, the 'we' that somehow Yvaleth was never included in, the one that divided her from the rest of the clan with a dagger's sharpness. “I did my best,” she muttered.

Yrina laughed. “Of course you did, little bungler. Who ever thought you weren't doing your best? You have always done your best, and it has never been anything but a disaster. Too weak to string a bow, too wild to abide by the Keeper's words. Always thinking you knew best. I have known what you were since I wandered the woods, begging Fen'harel to claw you from my belly. But his arrow is slower than that, isn't it, little miscarriage? Better to let you grow like a canker, a bloated worm devouring my flower...”

Cold. Yvaleth felt so cold. Of course she couldn't escape this—how had she ever imagined anything would be different? Haven and the Inquisition seemed like a bright dream now, like the fantasy of a lonely girl making up friends for herself. Of course it had melted away to reveal the truth, that she was no more than she had ever been, the awkward, useless apprentice who fled into the woods at every chance...

“That is not your mother,” the statue said in a low, growling voice, its stone jaws moving, body shifting into hunting posture as lichen flaked from its haunches.

Yvaleth didn't even dignify that with an answer. Of course it was her mother. Of course...of course...of course...the words rang in her head, like a funeral toll, the death of all her hopes. Of course.

Yrina laughed bitterly, turning to gaze with hatred at the statue of the Dread Wolf. “Your father is speaking, Yvaleth, you should show better manners.”

“ _Ma harel, elgar_. I am _not_ her father!” And the voice was so sharp, so angry that it startled Yvaleth from her self-pitying reflections. The statue was _arguing_ with her mother. Everything else was familiar, but that was new, new enough to awake her interest. Yvaleth stepped toward the statue, staring into the eyes, which now held living fire, an intelligence—a familiar one. She lifted her hand, stroking the wolf's stone jaw fearlessly and smiling at the tickle of moss on her fingertips.

And in the intensity of his golden gaze, reason returned. “I would never come back here,” Yvaleth whispered. “Never.”

“What are you saying?” Yrina demanded, eyes narrowed. “Why are you whispering to it?”

Yvaleth turned, drawing her shoulders back and lifting her chin. “I would never come back. I will never listen to your poisoned words again. This is not real!”

Her mother let out a terrible scream, and again the scene before her melted away. Yvaleth stumbled, weak and dizzy as she felt something _pulling_ from her, sifting her. She held out her hands defensively, trying to erect a barrier against the malevolence she could feel, but it was weak, fluid and flimsy.

Snow. Snow everywhere, in her eyelashes, beneath her feet, and coating the spiky mountain range. Pure and pristine and white...was she home, then? Had she won? The familiar road winding up the hillside lay before her, the road that led to Haven, and Yvaleth broke into a run, delighting in the crunch of icy snow beneath her boots. Home. Home.

But when she rounded the last curve of the road, a shocked cry tore itself free from her throat. The snow was white no longer, stained obscene crimson beneath scattered figures lying in the snow, like dolls thrown down carelessly by a willful child. So many...so many... And there, at the forefront, the sun glinting off golden hair...

“Cullen!” She flew to his side, falling to her knees. “No, oh no, Cullen, _ma vhenan_ , no...”

His mouth, the beautiful mouth she had watched with curious desire so often, the lips now stained with blood, twitched as if he were trying to smile. “Yv...” A horrible, wet cough began shaking his body, twisting his face with pain.

“Don't try to talk, don't...” Her hands flew over him, trying to find the injury, to stop the flow of life's blood, to save him. But there wasn't one injury—every place her hands lit he hissed with pain. Arrow wounds in his chest, his breastplate pierced as easily as ripe cheese. A sword's deep bite under his arm, in his belly.

“Too late...” He coughed again, eyes narrowing with pain. “You weren't here...”

“I didn't know,” she sobbed. A raven wheeled in a lowering spiral and lit on the snow a few feet away, cocking its head curiously. Waiting for its dinner. “Get away!” she shrieked, throwing a handful of snow at it, but it only hopped a few steps away and continued, watching, waiting.

Bowing her head over Cullen again, she tried to smile through her tears. “I'm here. I'm here now, Cullen. Everything will be all right...”

But he shook his head. “Only one way, my...my Yvaleth.” His hand twitched, pushing the blood-stained sword in it toward her. “Lie with me...beloved...”

She recoiled in horror, staring at Cullen's face, his golden eyes warm with entreaty. Except it wasn't him. Cullen who hated his own failures worse than any foe, who had sacrificed so much...this was not Cullen. And as Yvaleth realized that, she knew what she faced, the foe who sought to take her whole self from her, still whispering in Cullen's voice, “Join me, my...love...”

Yvaleth snatched up the sword. In real life, Cullen's greatsword would have been almost impossible for her to lift while kneeling on the ground, but the surge of certainty had given her strength within the space of the Fade. She lifted it high and without hesitation drove it into his body, leaning all her weight on it. “Cullen would...never...say...that,” she growled.

Beneath her, Cullen's form changed into the skeletal, black-hooded figure of a despair demon, and a horrible scream rose up. It echoed everywhere, the mountains amplifying it until it nearly maddened Yvaleth into panic. But still she kept both hands on the sword, still she pushed with all her might, sobbing aloud...

And then hard hands were gripping her shoulders, shaking, and she could hear her name. “Yvaleth. Wake now. Wake, _da'len_.”

Yvaleth's eyes flew open, her heart still thundering with panic. Solas's face was directly before her, eyes narrow with concern “I—“ she gasped. “I...Cullen...no, it...the demon.”

“It is dead,” Solas said, slow and precise. “Breathe, _da'len_.” As he had done once before, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers. She tried to pull away at first, the adrenaline still coursing through her veins making her frantic and skittish, but he was too strong, and slowly Yvaleth was drawn into the steady rhythm of his breathing, the calm that seemed to flow from him.

Her panic turned to tears, but they were slow, tears of sorrow more than anguish. It was the demon. The demon who had taken Leliana's form. The demon who had so easily slipped into her mother's skin, the poison so familiar she couldn't recognize its true source. The demon who had created the scene of butchery before the gates of Haven.

And she had killed the demon.

Once she was calm, Solas drew back, smiling down at her in an expression laced with melancholy. “You did well. But, _da'len_ , your mother is a terrible person.”

Yvaleth couldn't help laughing at that unexpected assertion. “Yes, I—I'm aware.” She sat up, making a little face. “My mouth tastes filthy.” She found the cup on the table beside the bed and refilled it, drinking deeply. She already felt stronger and better than she had the last time she woke, as if she had recovered from a long and weary illness.

“You weren't there,” she mused. “The last time.” Solas had been Dorian, had been the statue of Fen'Harel. But in the last scene, it had only been her and the demon.

“Was I not? You threw snow at me most disrespectfully.”

“The raven? But...but you didn't say anything.”

“There was no need. Apparently even in the worst extremity, you knew Cullen from the demon's semblance.” His eyes on her were shrewd and asked the question his words did not.

Yvaleth could feel the heat rising up in her face. “He—well, he's not like that,” she mumbled. Then, to escape his mocking gaze, she climbed out of bed, running her hands through her matted hair and making a face. “We should tell them. That it's all right now.”

As she'd hoped, Solas was distracted by that, but he didn't agree at once. “I will go. You should...wait here. Eat something, regain your strength.”

Yvaleth cocked her head. “But won't they want to see me? I—it's all right now. I killed it.”

“Yes. But...” Solas gave a bitter smile, abandoning the attempt at equivocation. “There are two of the Inquisition's templars on guard outside the door until further notice.”

Fear and anger bubbled up inside Yvaleth, quicker than she could remember that if things had gone differently, she would have been glad for the templars there to protect her friends. “Of course there are,” she spat out. “I should have known.”

“I will go and speak to Cassandra. This should be easily cleared up—the demon never actually possessed you, and you are evidently yourself now.”

Easily? They both knew that was a lie. Nothing was easy when it involved a bunch of superstitious humans in whom the fear of demons had been raised. She didn't answer, but turned away to pour water into the washbasin, splashing her face. “Do what you must, then.”

But as she heard the door open, Yvaleth turned her head. “Solas?”

“Yes?” He paused, standing in the doorway.

“It was...hard to trust you like that. But I'm glad I did. _Ma serannas, hahren_.”

Solas's only response was a deep nod, almost a bow, and a fleeting smile. Then he left, closing the door behind him.

The door to her prison.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks, as always, for comments and kudos! I'm so grateful to all of you.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which trust is broken, and Dorian shows the way

It felt wrong to be standing in the war room without Yvaleth. She had become the guiding spirit of every council, the quiet center, so simply and absolutely that at first, it took them a long time to begin the conference rather than waiting for her arrival. Cullen closed his eyes briefly, desperately wishing she would walk in the door just then, streaming apologies for her lateness. If only she hadn't insisted on going back to Redcliffe!

“What now?” Cassandra asked heavily.

“Solas has assured us that the demon never took her,” Josephine said, her eyes moving from Cassandra's face to Cullen's, worry barely restrained in her own demeanor. “Surely we should be talking _to_ the Herald, not about her?”

“We cannot risk being corrupted if...if she has become an abomination,” Leliana said, her voice a little unsteady. “We have only Solas's word that she has not—are we to risk the fate of the Inquisition on the word of an apostate mage? Someone who cares about her?”

That made Cullen's temper flare. “What would you like to do, then, Leliana? Shall we invite Chancellor Roderick in to give his opinion? If Solas cares about her, he wouldn't let her continue...defiled.” The very thought of it made him feel sick. Yvaleth... But even as he tried to summon the memory of her brightness, her strength, his mind conjured up her dead-eyed confusion as she'd twisted out of his grip the last time.

“She never hurt anyone. She never tried to. I was with her for three days.” Cassandra's voice was calm and dispassionate, though a jumping muscle in her cheek showed how hard it was. “But there is no denying that she was not herself.”

“After watching everyone she cared about _die_ ,” Cullen put in. “She was confused, terrified...even then, what did she say? Leliana, what did she say?”

“I remember what she said well enough,” Leliana said slowly. “ _I won't let them hurt you_...”

“And you said you knew it. You promised her.” Cullen hadn't realized how much his voice had risen until he saw Josephine flinch.

“I am surprised to see you let passion carry you away, Cullen. You of all people.” Cassandra's voice was deliberately cold.

“I of all people know what a maleficar is like, how an abomination behaves!” Cullen growled. “Test her, if you will. Talk to her. But I will never believe it.” A strange clarity came over him then. It was true. He would never believe it. She could stand over him and tear out his heart, and...and he could not raise his hand against Yvaleth.

“Is there a way to try her?” Josephine asked. “Cullen is right that we cannot condemn her without proof. All questions of friendship aside, the Inquisition and its hopes will almost certainly die with her. We all know that. We would be disgraced for allowing this to happen.”

Cassandra pursed her lips. “There is no formal test, at least none that are truly reliable. But when a demon is put in danger, it will always defend itself.”

“So will a person,” Josephine protested. “If she tries to protect herself from attack, she is guilty?”

“Yvaleth's magics are not like those a demon would call on.” Cassandra looked straight at Cullen. “A templar can make her weak enough to call forth the demon, if there is one.”

“I am _not_ a templar,” Cullen said, his voice a low, rumbling growl. “I haven't taken lyrium in a year. And I'm not going to take it so I can torture Yvaleth.”

Cassandra nodded slowly, and her jaw clenched. “Then I will do it.”

“Can you disable her magic?” Josephine asked.

“The Seekers are trained in Templar methods, as well as other methods of combating mages” Cassandra said. “We must be, for we are the last defense when the Templars have failed. I do not need to use lyrium to break her spells.”

Cullen knew, rationally, that she didn't mean the words as a reproach upon him. But it felt like a failure, just another example of how inadequate he had made himself. And as much as his heart rose up against the idea, he had to admit it was the best option. Cassandra was nothing if not disciplined—she would never go too far, not without reason. And...it wouldn't be him. Slowly, his teeth gritted, he forced himself to nod. Around the table, Josephine and Leliana did the same.

“Then I will go now,” Cassandra said heavily. “There is no sense in waiting.”

***

Yvaleth watched the candle burn down. It had been light when Solas left, but now it was dark. She had heard a clanking of armor outside the door some time ago, the templars changing shifts. Her jailors, who must remain fresh and vigilant against her escape.

They hadn't believed Solas. It was the only possible conclusion. And what did that mean? Execution, she supposed. She wondered who would do it. Some nameless templar? Or would Cassandra wield the blade herself to atone for her mistake in trusting Yvaleth? At least Tranquility wasn't a likely threat—better anything than that.

She had been lost in dark, miserable brooding for some time when she heard a voice outside, a familiar one. Cassandra. Her heart rose up in hope. Maybe they had only delayed to discuss it? Maybe Cassandra was coming to tell her she was free, to apologize for the long wait...

That hope died the moment the door opened and Yvaleth saw Cassandra's face, taut and expressionless. It hurt to see Cassandra looking at her like that. Even though the Seeker was not warm, even though they weren't even quite friends, not yet, there had always been camaraderie between them, the trust born of soldiers fighting side by side. Now Cassandra regarded her warily, like an enemy.

Yvaleth looked down at the floor, and she had to swallow hard before she spoke. “I thought you'd wait till dawn. But I suppose you want to pretend something else happened, like an assassin. It wouldn't reflect well, I suppose, that you had to kill your 'Herald.'”

“Yvaleth,” Cassandra said, and she waited until Yvaleth raised her eyes to continue. Her eyes were dark, tormented. “I'm sorry.”

Yvaleth opened her mouth to answer, but before she could make a sound, the silence slammed into her, darkness wrapping her so tightly she could not have choked out a single word. But she could hear, could hear the familiar singing of Cassandra's blade pulled free from its scabbard and lifted aloft as blinding light came down from the heavens, engulfing Cassandra in a pillar of pure white light.

It was so sudden and so bright that Yvaleth fell down, clutching at her eyes in pain, her mouth open in a silent cry. Dark spots danced in front of her eyes, but there was no time to recover before a hard mailed hand had caught her shoulder, and she was roughly flipped onto her back, pinned by the Seeker's weight. Then she felt the weight of steel on her throat, pressing down: not the edge of the blade, but the flat, choking her slowly.

And inside her, a little voice cried frantically, _not like this, not like this..._ It shouldn't have been like this. A clean swing, the chance to kneel, to face her fate bravely—didn't they owe her that, that honor accorded to the worst, the lowest, of criminals? Instead Yvaleth would die, mute and blind, choked by a woman whom she had trusted above all others. Yvaleth clenched her fists, willing herself not to claw at the sword. She would only cut her hands—they would use the wounds as proof she had resisted.

Now the dark spots were joined by white ones as the lack of oxygen became more and more painful, but Yvaleth forced herself to keep her eyes open, even though Cassandra's face was only a blur. Make her see it. Make her see the light die in Yvaleth's eyes and know that it was no demon, but only her. Her eyes alone would witness her innocence, even as she died for it.

And then, just as she could feel herself falling into blackness, the pressure was released from her throat, and Cassandra's weight rolled abruptly off her. Yvaleth coughed, first silently, then aloud as the silencing wore off.

The sword clattered to the floor. “I'm sorry,” Cassandra said, and her voice was rough. “I'm sorry. I had to know.”

Yvaleth still lay flat on the floor, her chest working convulsively to draw in air. She could speak now, she knew, but she didn't. What was there to say? Cassandra had nearly killed her, in an effort to draw forth whatever demon might be hiding inside her. Yvaleth had gone into the darkest parts of herself, faced down a demon, killed it, and what was her reward? To be silenced, thrown down, and nearly strangled, like any wayward apostate.

As the strength returned to her limbs, Yvaleth rolled over—away from where Cassandra sat, panting. She curled into herself, the pain in her chest so sharp and raw she could have believed Cassandra had cut out her heart. This was what it meant to trust someone. To open your chest and hand them your heart—so that they could crush it in their hands.

“The demon would have protected itself,” Cassandra said, and there was something tentative in her speech. After a long silence, she added, “You can still speak? Your throat...I tried not to...”

“Out,” Yvaleth said hoarsely, drawing herself into a sitting position and then clawing at the table for support so she could stand. She didn't want to—she never wanted to move again, wanted to lie there forever until she decayed into the floorboards, and even then it would still hurt, she was sure. But just as, in her final act of defiance, she had tried to make Cassandra see her die, now she would not lie there like a beaten child. In case her first word had not been clear, she repeated herself in two flinty syllables: “Get out.”

***

Two days. It was two days since anyone except Solas had seen Yvaleth, and the most news the apostate would give them of her was “still not an abomination,” delivered with a cynical smile. Cassandra, if possible, looked more tired than she had on their return from Redcliffe, carrying deep shadows under her eyes and a desperate look. And it didn't help that Cullen knew she was carrying the burden for them—for him, especially. Didn't help that, even though she disclosed no details, he knew the kind of thing she must have done. Relived it nightly in his dreams, with his own sword at Yvaleth's throat, and her huge, meadow-green eyes frightened and confused.

Tempers were beyond short when the forces that had been sent to Redcliffe Castle finally arrived with the mages. It didn't help that half a dozen of them were from the Kirkwall Circle and had already spread word about “Knight-Captain Cullen” among their fellows. The mages seemed determined to pick a fight before they'd even unpacked. They complained about their tents—as if they shouldn't have been thankful he'd managed to requisition enough extra supplies that there _were_ tents for all of them. They complained about the food. They complained about everything.

So when Cassandra asked him when he thought they'd be ready to approach the Breach, Cullen was beyond frustrated. “How in the Void should I know? _My_ men are ready. You're the one who let Yvaleth saddle us with a bunch of rebel mages who are supposed to be allies. I've put up a rotation for the templars we have—keeping a few near at all times, just in case. But I can't think of anything more ill-advised. Half a hundred of them! There _will_ be abominations, and—“

He and Cassandra were so intent on their conference that they didn't hear the light tread approaching them, didn't look up at the sight of a scout's cloak. Didn't stop until a slightly husky voice said, “How many?”

Cullen looked up then, and all the blood drained from his face. Yvaleth had always been fair, but now her skin was so pale he could see the blue shadows of veins at her temples and over her eyelids. Her eyes were as shadowed, as tormented, as Cassandra's. As his own, probably. She had wrapped a scarf close around her neck, and Cullen could imagine the bruises that lay beneath. “Yvaleth...” He trailed off. What could he say? There was a terrible look of betrayal in her gaze, one that tore at him with sickening intensity.

Her eyes blazed with anger. “I said how many? If in half a hundred there _must_ be abominations, how many does it take? Four? Solas, Vivienne, Dorian and I make four. Since you have thoroughly tested me, who is the abomination?”

There was a long silence. There was nothing he could say to make this better. Not after what she had been through. And Cassandra seemed to think the same, her eyes fixed on her boots, not stirring.

Finally, Yvaleth seemed to force herself into control. “I came to ask when we can advance on the Breach. We have the power we need. It's time to put an end to this.”

And something in the way she said the last hurt Cullen more even than her anger, for it was so final. She just wanted to be done with them. Before, he had imagined that when the Breach was closed, and they were not so preoccupied with the immediate crisis, there would be time. Time to tell her everything, including how he felt. Now he doubted there would be such time. Now perhaps the only time they had lay behind them, and Cullen had not told her.

“Two days,” Cassandra said finally, still not looking up. “The mages will need time to rest after the journey. We will advance in two days.”

“Very good.” Yvaleth gave an ironic salute, spun on her heel, and walked away.

***

It was dark in the corner of Enansal's stall, but warm, and Yvaleth had been there for since the sun had gone down and she could slip to the stables unnoticed. Invisible. Unseen. How often in life had that been her goal, to go through the world as invisibly as a spirit? Now she couldn't take three steps without people watching her, murmuring blessings, or even dropping to one knee.

But darkness was an old friend and a good one, and here there was no one but the hart who stood patiently, once in a while dropping his head to mumble at the tip of her ear with his lips, making her suppress a shiver and a giggle. The warm smell of clean animal soothed her, and she bumped Enansal's long nose with the side of her head, rubbing softly against him.

And then a lantern cut through the darkness. “Pearl of the Dalish, are you here?” came Dorian's voice.

Yvaleth wanted to swear, or cry, or run and hide. Couldn't a woman just be alone with her faithful steed? “No,” she grumbled.

Unsurprisingly, that did not dissuade Dorian in the least, and the stall door opened, the lantern shining on his face so that he looked even more theatrical than usual. He pursed his lips, gazing at her rather critically. “I had planned a beautiful speech for our reunion, but I can hardly deliver it in a dunghouse.” He had an open bottle of wine in one hand.

“It's called a stable, Dorian. I refuse to believe you've never seen one.” She was not going to let Dorian make her laugh.

“Yes, a dunghouse. A house where dung is stored. And the Herald of Andraste, apparently.”

Yvaleth said nothing, hoping it would make him go away, but after a moment, Dorian skirted Enansal rather warily—though he paused to peer under the hart's tail and mutter, “Show off”—and came to sit in the straw beside her. “There. Now we can be dung friends.”

“They do clean it,” she said witheringly. “Anyway, I already have a dung friend. You'll upset him.” Though, surprisingly, Enansal didn't react much to Dorian's presence, though he tended to be skittish and fierce with the stable lads, having taken more than a few nips out of them. “How did you find me?”

To Yvaleth's surprise, he turned an entirely serious look on her, his eyes dark and sad. “When man fails us, where else?” He took a long pull from the bottle of wine, then passed it to her. “When I was a boy, I had a gray mare named Lucia.”

“And you went to visit her when your father refused to buy you more hair ribbons?” she asked callously, taking one long drink, then another before she passed the bottle back to him. The wine was strong and rich, like Dorian.

Dorian smiled tightly. “Something like that.” His long fingers came up to tug at her scarf, and Yvaleth tried to bat him away.

“Stop it!”

But he caught her wrist in a grip like steel and pulled the scarf down until he could see the dark purple bar of bruising across her throat. His fingers danced over it lightly. “Why are you ashamed?”

“I'm not ashamed,” Yvaleth said immediately. “It would hardly do to let everyone see where the Seeker choked their precious Herald of Andraste half to death, would it? We have a job to do.”

“Ah, but my sweet, I am not everyone.” He let her go, leaning back against the wall and taking another long drink. “What kind of demon was it? No one said.”

She pressed her lips together for a moment, then finally said, “Despair.”

“My old friend. If I'd known she was visiting, I'd have sent my regards.” And then he dipped his head forward, sighing. “I _should_ have known. I shouldn't have let you go off alone after all that.”

“This one won't be visiting you or anyone else ever again,” Yvaleth said darkly.

He nodded, passing the bottle to her again without looking. “Father or mother?”

“What?” The word came out sharp and angry.

Dorian gave her a dry look. “I've told you, we're old friends. Father or mother?”

Yvaleth drank again. The wine was beginning to make her feel warmer, less cold inside. “I don't have a father,” she said heavily.

“Lucky little thing,” he hummed, then caught the evil look she was casting at him. “Or not.”

“Definitely not.” Yvaleth drank again.

Dorian rolled up his single long sleeve, holding it out before her, and in the flickering light, with her vision a bit...creative from the strong wine, at first she thought he was wearing a gathered pink satin undertunic. And then she realized it was his flesh. She lifted a hand hesitantly, touching the scarred flesh very lightly. “Burns?” she said in a small voice.

“Mmm. Marry or burn, Father's favorite game. He used to hold my arm over the candle, telling me he was doing it for my own good.” His voice was brittle, and after a moment he took the wine from her and pulled his arm away.

“You must really like being a bachelor,” Yvaleth blurted out, only afterward realizing how stupid and cruel that sounded. “I—I'm sorry, I mean...”

But Dorian was laughing, warm and mirthful, bumping his shoulder against hers. “I do! But it was...more about the wrong sort of marriage. He couldn't accept who I was—men loving men is a beautiful and time-honored tradition, but it does create a few difficulties in the provision of heirs. And so...” He waved his hand and took a long drink of wine. “So I burned.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Yvaleth whispered.

“Because I know what makes a person hide away with their dung friend,” he said softly. “And sometimes, it helps to talk.”

Yvaleth shrugged, still unwilling to let the sorrow inside her bubble forth fully. Even to Solas she'd said very little about what had passed with Cassandra. But finally, she said, answering his earlier question, “It was my mother. If Solas hadn't been there...I couldn't have told the difference.” She laughed, a little sloppily. “It took a talking wolf statue for me to tell my mother from a demon. Even then it was hard to believe. My little miscarriage...my little disappointment...” The bottle was in her hand again, and she drank.

“But you killed it,” Dorian said softly. “You were stronger.”

She nodded. “I was stronger. And then what? For what? For Cassandra to come in and knock me down...and said sorry. Sorry? And Cullen said...said she shouldn't let me help them. Said bombinations. Bomations.” Yvaleth hadn't realized she was crying until the tears got all mixed up in her voice, and when Dorian put his arm around her, drawing her head down onto his shoulder, she let him, muffling the hurt wail that wanted to come forth, the one she couldn't let anyone hear.

Dorian held her for a long time, letting her cry out the pain she'd been stifling in a hard knot in her chest, but when her tears slowed, he said, “Which one is Cullen? The pretty one?”

Yvaleth nodded, giving a sad little hiccup. “So pretty.”

Dorian snickered, but his hand was gentle as he wiped away her tears with his fingertips. “Precious girl,” he said softly. “Do you think Cassandra would have done that to anyone else?”

“What d'you mean?” she demanded, lifting her head to look at him owlishly.

“A Seeker like her? They tend to kill first and ask questions later. Templars too. But they tested you. It's a mercy many mages have died without. Come, Yvaleth, did you think they could just leave it? Look at Alexius, look at the future he made: that's what happens when leaders are corrupted.”

“Not a leader,” Yvaleth grumbled. “Just...green hand.” But even in the haze of warmth the wine had conferred on her, it made some sense. Of course they couldn't take a chance. How many things had already been done on her word alone? And if a demon took her, what dark purposes could that power be turned to?

Dorian laughed at her and kissed her temple. “You are an adorable drunk, my darling. And, whether you like it or not, you are the guiding spirit of this Inquisition.”

“Stupid heads.” She lifted her hand and realized the bottle wasn't in it anymore. “Wine?”

“I finished it. I am nothing if not a responsible guardian of your innocence.”

“Wanker.”

“Well, quite.”

And half an hour later, when Dorian carried Yvaleth back up to her house, she had already fallen into a true, restful sleep, more peaceful than she had known in a long time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your kind comments and kudos AND for your patience with this *ridiculously* slow build. We're getting there, I promise!


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which KISSIES!

Yvaleth was awake before dawn, head pounding, mouth dry, and entirely too wretched to sleep any longer. Wasn't wine supposed to help you sleep? Why in the world did anyone do that to themselves? She recalled the night before, how she'd cried on Dorian's shoulder, the things she'd told him...

And yet she felt no regret. Regardless of the aftereffects, Dorian's cure had been effective. He was right. Of course they wouldn't just take Solas's word and hers that the demon was gone. Remembering Cassandra's tormented eyes, she knew the Seeker would have preferred anything rather than have done that. And Cullen...

One thing at a time. The first thing was Cassandra. No, the first thing was tea. A lot of it. The second thing was Cassandra.

Twenty minutes later, fortified by a large bowl of tea, Yvaleth headed for Cassandra's room, though she wasn't sure the Seeker would still be there. She was always an early riser, Yvaleth knew, and mentally she began mapping where Cassandra might go after waking. Not the mess, she said only children ate before noon.

But before she could proceed further, she found Cassandra kneeling in prayer before the shrine in the Chantry, eyes closed and lips moving silently. She looked so tired, and a pang of guilt reminded Yvaleth that she was at least in part to blame for that. Slowly, walking in her 'exaggeratedly loud' way, so that she wouldn't end up with the business end of Cassandra's sword in her face, Yvaleth knelt down beside her.

Cassandra's lips stilled, and her eyes opened. Without speaking, she looked a silent question at Yvaleth. Yvaleth tried to smile. “Can I too?” It seemed important to find some place of commonality between them, to show that even if she didn't hold the same beliefs they did, she could honor them all the same. That courtesy might never be reciprocated, probably wouldn't, but she could only be responsible for herself, not them.

Cassandra's eyes widened. “You don't believe in the Maker.”

“What did you say? With so many gods, what's one more? I don't...not believe.” Yvaleth turned her eyes to the statue of Andraste, curious but respectful. “You believe. May I not pray, then?”

Cassandra swallowed, and after a long moment, she said, “Of course you may.” She closed her eyes. “Oh, Maker, hear my cry: Guide me through the blackest nights.”

Yvaleth repeated softly after her, though it seemed less than propitious that the very first request made of the Maker was one he apparently wouldn't heed. Were his children really so bad that he had to ignore them forever? At least Yvaleth's gods had been torn away from their people, not left willingly. But she continued, steadily echoing the words Cassandra spoke until they reached, “For You are the fire at the heart of the world, and comfort is only Yours to give.” She liked this verse, much better than some of the other parts of the Chant she had heard sung by the sisters.

Cassandra stood then, and she held her hand out to Yvaleth, her eyes somber, still questioning. Yvaleth stood too, though she ignored the hand. Despite her willingness to make peace, she couldn't forget how recently it had been turned against her. Yvaleth knew she had to say something, that they couldn't go on with anger and fear between them, but it was so hard...

“I forgive you,” she sighed finally. “I can't—I can't forget what you did, or how it...how it felt to have someone I trusted so much hurt me. But I do understand, a little. If I were in a different position, one less fraught, you might have been more merciful.”

A little flicker of hope kindled in Cassandra's eyes. “I know I must be terrible to you now. And if I could change that...but I had to do it. There was no alternative.”

Yvaleth fundamentally disagreed. They could have trusted Solas. But she knew that, from the Seeker's perspective, she was speaking the truth. “It doesn't matter. It's done. And as I said, I...I forgive you.” She couldn't forget, couldn't return to the place of implicit trust in Cassandra—that would take longer. But she did forgive. She had to, or else leave the Inquisition, for they couldn't go forward with bitterness lying between them.

“Thank you,” Cassandra said, rather formally, as if she too could sense what lay beyond that forgiveness.

Yvaleth nodded, then turned to walk away. But Cassandra stopped her. “Herald...”

Yvaleth looked back, the hated title seeming to hold all the distance that lay between them. “Yes?”

“However you feel about me, whatever is lost, you should talk to Cullen. What he said...he didn't mean it. He didn't mean you. You don't know what he's been through. He would never hurt you. He believed you from the beginning. However you may feel that I have failed you...Cullen was always your friend.”

Yvaleth refrained from pointing out that neither of them really knew what _she_ had been through. But she didn't want to argue, so she said, “I'll try and make time,” keeping the promise vague enough to give her a little room.

***

It was evening when the knock came on her door, and Yvaleth looked up from the letter to the Orlesian ambassador she was trying to write. It was frustrating, knowing Josephine would only have to copy it over and fix the mistakes, but she was doing her best. “Come in,” she called.

When Cullen walked in, looking strained and wary, she laid down her pen, eyes wide with surprise. She'd managed to avoid him all day—what was he doing here?

“Herald. What can I do for you? A runner said you wished to see me.” He was ramrod straight, looking anywhere except at her face.

Yvaleth groaned softly. She supposed this was Cassandra's way of making her keep her vague, half-meant promise. Not giving herself time to think better of it, she said, “We should...we should talk.” They couldn't go on like this. Not when they were about to face the Breach itself.

Cullen's face softened, eyes warming, and why did he have to be so beautiful? Stupid, beautiful man. “I'd like that,” he said in a quiet voice.

She hopped up from her desk and settled down on the hearth before the fire, hugging her knees to her chest. She watched Cullen, standing and looking uneasy, for a moment, then nodded to the chair. “Please.”

Cullen took off his breastplate, leaning it against the back of the chair, and sat down. “You look...better,” he offered hesitantly. “Yvaleth...I could cut out my tongue for saying that. I just—you don't know what mages are like.” At Yvaleth's open mouth, he held up his hand. “I know how stupid that sounds. But you don't. You think mages are like you, or Solas. But I've worked alongside them for years. They're not. When the Kirkwall Circle fell, _half_ of the mages were practicing blood magic in the end. Half. Right under our noses.”

“Maybe if they hadn't been under your noses, they would have done better,” she retorted. She did _not_ tell him about Solas's troublingly permissive attitude towards blood magic. He wouldn't understand.

He let out a long, pained sigh. “Maybe. Probably. I know Knight-Commander Meredith must have driven some to despair, and the atmosphere of fear she cultivated, the way she let abuses flourish...you're not wrong. And it was my fault too. I...I hated mages,” he confessed. “And she played on that hatred—hiding the worst of her own cruelties from me, using me as a shield...”

“Why did you hate them?” Yvaleth asked, forcing herself to keep her temper. “Is that why you became a templar?”

“No! Maker, no. I—I had high ideals when I signed up. How we were meant to be protectors and guardians. I believed that. And it was when I could no longer believe in the possibility of it that I left. I'm not a good man, Yvaleth, but...I am not so bad as that.”

Yvaleth bit her lip. “No, I know. I'm sorry. But...why, then? Cassandra said I didn't know what you'd been through, and there's something you keep hinting at. Is it about...about the woman you failed?” she asked, remembering what he'd said once, about her reminding him of someone.

“In a way,” Cullen said slowly. “But...to tell you about Neria, I would have to begin at the beginning.”

“That's a good place,” she said encouragingly. Seeing the hesitation in his eyes, she added, “There are so many things we haven't said, Cullen. So many things that lie between us. And...no matter how many absolutely stupid things you say, or I say, I...I would find a way to be rid of those things. I don't know if that matters to you, but...” Yvaleth lifted her gaze, forcing herself to look into his eyes. “It matters to me.”

“It matters to me too,” Cullen whispered, bowing his head. “All right. Neria was...a mage. Elven. Not Dalish—she came from an alienage in Denerim. She was brought to the Circle at Kinloch where I was first stationed when she was just a little girl—seven I think. There were whispers about how powerful she was, for her magic to show so early. That was before my time. I was seventeen when I met her, a brand new templar, bound to uphold the Maker's will and protect the mages from themselves.” He spoke bitterly, mockingly.

Yvaleth nodded encouragingly, and he continued. “She was...like you. So quick and clever that she shone like a candle in the darkness, even among all those mages. She had a bad time of it from the beginning. Most of the other pupils were human, and...well, you can guess how they treated her, especially when it became clear she was far more talented than they.

“But it never seemed to dim her. She loved learning. She wanted to know everything. And...and one day, when she was still just a girl, twelve I think, she asked the Knight-Commander if the elven gods might not be aspects of the Maker.” He let out a long, miserable breath.

“I take it that didn't go well,” Yvaleth said neutrally.

Cullen shook his head. “The First Enchanter tried to protect her, said he would deal with her, but—but Knight-Commander Greagoir insisted on supervising her penance personally for such blasphemy. He took her to the chapel, and made her kneel there—and when he grew weary of watching her misery, he called in another templar to watch her. She had neither food, nor water, nor sleep. Only commands to pray aloud, or prostrate herself on the cold stone, or...well, you get the idea.

“I was called in late on the second day. I couldn't believe they were still persisting—but Greagoir insisted she hadn't repented yet. I—I wasn't as bad as you think. I snuck in food and water, I told her to sleep while I watched her. But she...” Cullen's face creased in pain. “She wouldn't take the food or water. She wouldn't sleep. She said...she said she had repented on the first day, but they didn't care. That they would keep her here until her body broke, and she wouldn't prolong things just to make me feel better about myself. Maker, if you could have seen her face...” Cullen let out a long, shuddering breath.

Yvaleth moved closer, raising up on her knees to touch his bicep lightly, trying to comfort him. He looked back at her, dull agony in his eyes. “She was right. Of course she was right. It went on until she passed out. She got sick after that—she had a fever for weeks. The First Enchanter was furious; he even managed to get Greagoir censured, though he stayed on. And after that—all her brightness was hidden away. She closed up, like a bloom going back into the bud. Her face was always tight, always fearful, and yet she was beautiful all the same. I used...as she got older, I even fantasized about taking her away—stealing her phylactery and taking her away from all that. But I didn't. Of course I didn't. She despised me for good reason, knew what a coward I was. I dragged her out of bed for her Harrowing. I held the sword ready to kill her if she failed.”

“What happened to her?” Yvaleth whispered.

“She passed the Harrowing. But just afterward, Neria...made a mistake. She helped a blood mage escape. She didn't know what he was, I'll swear it. Leliana's told me she killed Jowan herself, when she found him later. But it didn't matter that she believed the best. She would have been made Tranquil. But a Grey Warden recruited her, saved her.”

At that, Yvaleth's eyes widened as realization dawned. Neria...a Grey Warden... “She wasn't... _the_ Neria?” The heroic sacrifice of the Grey Warden, who had died to stop the Archdemon and save Thedas from the Blight was already legendary. The connection between the mythic hero and the miserable child he described had seemed so unlikely that she hadn't even considered it.

Cullen nodded morosely. “The Hero of Fereldan. Yes. But that part isn't my story. You know it already anyway—though you should ask Leliana, she tells it well. The next time I saw her was after the Circle had fallen. A maleficar took control: Uldred was powerful, stronger even than the First Enchanter, or at least willing to use powers Irving was too principled to abandon. He captured most of the templars—which is when we discovered we weren't nearly as prepared for such an eventuality as we'd imagined. Then we were...tortured. I'll spare you the details. They broke us systematically, and when we had betrayed ourselves, lost any semblance of the people we were, we were killed.”

Yvaleth still had her hand on Cullen's arm, and she squeezed hard, wishing she could get closer, but not wanting to interrupt him or startle him when he was doing something so difficult. She was sorry she had asked him to do this, to relive this pain. And it was only the fact that he _was_ , that he was doing it to clear space for them, that kept her from begging him to stop. “That means you didn't break,” she whispered.

“Oh, I was broken.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Just not in the way they wanted. Out of a dozen, I was the last. I prayed...day and night I prayed, trying to cling to my sanity. When Neria came, I thought she was just another of the demon's illusions at first.” A flush rose up in his cheeks. “But I suppose she couldn't think any worse of me. She saved me, and the mages who had not joined the maleficar. And I...I begged her to kill them all. Even Greagoir was prepared to accept the First Enchanter's word, but I...” He bowed his head.

This was more troubling. How could Cullen, her tender, thoughtful Cullen be prepared to slaughter a group of innocents simply because of proximity? And yet, Cassandra had been right. Knowing the tortures he had endured did change her understanding. And in Kirkwall, the mages had turned to blood magic again. No wonder he had been upset by the arrival of the mages. No wonder he had been frightened.

So when Cullen lifted his head finally, his eyes hopeless, waiting for her judgment, her rejection, Yvaleth touched his cheek. “I'm proud of you,” she whispered.

His brown eyes widened in astonishment, and his mouth fell open. “ _Proud_?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “You didn't let them break you. And in the end, you left the Templars. And I know how you suffer for that. You may have done wrong for a time, but you didn't let it destroy you, make you less than what you are.” She smiled softly, looking straight into his eyes. “A knight of light and truth.”

Cullen let out a wild laugh, nearly a sob, and Yvaleth couldn't bear not to have him in her arms any longer. Not waiting for permission or invitation, she scrambled up onto his lap, letting his weary head fall into the crook of her neck, one arm holding him close while her other hand stroked his hair tenderly. His breath was hot and ragged against her skin, and his arms went around her—carefully at first, then more tightly, as if he could never bear to let her go. “Yvaleth...” he groaned.

She nuzzled him softly, comfortingly. “My brave Cullen,” she whispered. No one had ever held her like that—she couldn't remember ever being held in her mother's arms, and no boy had ever bothered with the wild, angry girl she had been. Yet it felt immediately _right_ , being so close, feeling his strength holding her together, keeping her safe.

“I couldn't tell you,” he mumbled. “I thought you would hate me...and after what we did to you...”

Yvaleth shook her head. “I could never hate you. I don't even hate Cassandra. It was horrible, and...I can't pretend it didn't hurt. But I understand.” She kissed his temple.

Finally Cullen leaned back, looking at her with eyes soft with wonder. “I will never deserve you,” he whispered.

“No, you're not that wicked,” Yvaleth said, trying to laugh, uncomfortable with the way he was looking at her. Trying to deflect, she said, “Though there's something nasty in your hair, Cullen. Haven't you ever washed it?”

Cullen snorted. “It's pomade, sweetheart. If you'd ever seen me without it, you'd know why.”

The word _sweetheart_ was another blow against her defenses, and in a deliberately light tone she said, “I can't think it would be worse than that stick—“

But before she could finish, he had dipped his head, capturing her lips with his own in a kiss that was desperate, yet achingly tender. Yvaleth was so shocked—and so innocent of lovemaking—that she didn't know what to do at first, and froze. But Cullen was persistent, if gentle, the soft movements of his lips coaxing until she gave a soft sigh and her own mouth began to move, eager for more of the lovely intimacy.

Cullen gave a quiet rumble of satisfaction and leaned back again, one hand coming up to draw her head onto his shoulder. Panting a little, Yvaleth rested there, all her defenses kissed away. She didn't know what to say, but he seemed content with her silence, one big hand stroking her hair in a gentle rhythm.

Finally he said, “Your turn.”

She twisted just a little so she could look up at him. “What do you mean?” she whispered.

Cullen kissed just between her eyebrows, smiling. “You said 'so many things' lay between us. I've given you my burden. Give me yours.”

“I don't have a story like yours,” Yvaleth demurred, but he was still looking at her, serious and gentle and patient. Finally she sighed, laying her head back on his shoulder. “My father...my father was a hunter from another clan. At the _arlathvhen—_ that's a gathering of the clans—my mother...caught his eye. He forced her. Such a thing would always be terrible, but for my mother it was worse. She became with child. I—you know I apprenticed with the healer of my clan, and I used to catch whispers, when they thought I couldn't hear. About how she'd begged for herbs to end the pregnancy. But children are so rare and precious among our people...they made her keep me. For a very long time, I wished they hadn't,” she said with a little, wretched laugh.

She wished Cullen would say something, but he was silent, still stroking her hair, waiting for her to continue. “I was always a reminder of it. Of the worst thing that had ever happened to her. Of course she didn't love me—how could she? Wh-when I was little, she told me Fen'Harel was my father. That's one of our gods: Dread Wolf, the betrayer. I was...so ashamed. Maybe some of the others in the clan would have pitied me, but I was too angry to let them. I used to run away into the woods for days at a time, when the weather was warm. I couldn't hunt, really, but I was five when I tied my first snare. At first I used to bring the things home, hoping she would be pleased, would...” She trailed off, a memory catching her fast and closing her throat, of a dead rabbit thrown into her face, a smear of blood on her cheek.

“It wasn't your fault,” Cullen murmured, his arm around her waist even tighter than before now, as if he could hold her safe from the pain.

“Not at first,” she agreed finally. “But later...I was so angry. The Keeper tried to help me, I think. She would sit me down, try to teach me lore. But I didn't care. I couldn't bear being there among the clan, always knowing I wasn't really of them. I would say hateful things...finally, she gave up. I grew more and more wild—when my magic showed, I should have been made First. Magic is rare, even among us. But they knew I wasn't fit for the responsibility. I was apprenticed to Healer Brenna, where at least my magic and my gathering could be of some use without harm to the clan, and I learned a little from her. But in the winter when there was nothing to do...that's why I was sent to spy on the Conclave. Thank Mythal,” she sighed.

Cullen let out a long sigh, and then he smiled down at her. “I'm proud of you,” he said, echoing her own words to him.

“Cullen,” she protested. “Don't make fun. There is nothing there to be proud of. If I had been strong, I would have done better. I would have been First. I would have overcome my passions.”

“I would never make a jest of that, Yvaleth,” he said, now sounding almost a little stern. “And you do _me_ wrong to think I would. They couldn't see you, all that you were, but you did not bend to hatred or foolishness. You kept yourself pure and strong, until the time was right. And now look at you.” He brushed a wisp of hair away from her face, smiling.

It was her turn to kiss him, still clumsy and uncertain, but unable to bear the slightest distance between them. She began to understand, a little, the awed wonder in his eyes, for she felt the same, dazzled by the beauty of his spirit, filled with such love that it nearly drowned her. At first the kisses were light, almost chaste, but then Cullen murmured, “Open your mouth,” and Yvaleth obeyed.

She jumped and almost startled away when his tongue entered her mouth, but Cullen's hand was cupping the back of her head, keeping her close. It wasn't so firm that she couldn't pull away if she really wanted to, but steady enough to prevent her automatic shying, and Yvaleth settled back into the kiss. And after a few seconds, the hot, needy movements of his tongue began to coax an answering warmth, and Yvaleth moaned, her own tongue curling up to caress his. She felt Cullen shiver with delight, and she became bolder, kissing him back, eager to show him the love that brimmed within her.

They kissed like that for several long minutes, Yvaleth growing more and more breathless and eager as Cullen expertly kissed her, teasing her with light nips to her lower lip and plundering her mouth in slow, rhythmic strokes. Finally, though, he broke away, his breathing ragged and his eyes slitted with pleasure. “Maker, Yvaleth...” he murmured.

She liked that look, how hungry he seemed—for her. This, even Yvaleth couldn't question, that his care and desire were entirely for her. He had shown it in so many small ways; even a demon couldn't trick her about Cullen's devotion.

Then he drew her head back down to his shoulder, seeming to like having it there just as much as she did, and he gave a long sigh. “You're so small. Like a precious little dove nestled in my arms,” he whispered.

Yvaleth glowed with his affectionate words, and she rubbed her nose along his jaw, murmuring, “Cullen?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“I think I'm going to have to survive the Breach. I want to do this forever.” Strange to realize, belatedly, that though she'd felt a certain sense of dread at the idea of facing the Breach, it hadn't seemed to _matter_ in the same way it did now. It would be too strong to say that Cullen had given her a reason to live—she had more than one. But kisses and holding weren't enough. Nothing would ever be enough. She suddenly felt _greedy_ for life, realizing it could be played out so sweetly.

His arms tightened around her, and his lips grazed her temple. “Damn right you are. I'm not sharing you with Andraste or anyone.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your support! I'm absolutely bowled over by all the kudos and kind comments. You rock! <3


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Yvaleth cheats death

The closing of the Breach felt almost anticlimactic when it finally came. Yvaleth had expected more, expected at least the illness that had followed when she'd stabilized it. But the steady power of so many mages had protected her, and that night, she perched on the tavern rooftop, watching the celebrations. They drank and danced and laughed as though being alive were the funniest of jokes. She ought to join them, she thought, but something kept her apart, quiet and thoughtful.

For the pleasure she craved was something more rare, quieter and sweeter. Cullen's eyes had shone with hopeful joy as he rode beside her on the way back to Haven, and his smile held all the promises they had not yet exchanged. But now there was time. There would still be work for the Inquisition to do, but there would no longer be the looming threat of a heavenly cataclysm. Yvaleth could taste a winter storm coming on the wind, but she was too caught up in considering the sweetness of a future, a future with Cullen, to worry about it. Yvaleth felt strong enough to defy any storm.

Then the alarm bells sounded.

***

Time. He had thought there would be time. Space to breathe,to enjoy the blossoming of new love. Space to find out what was next. But as flames consumed Haven, every moment was measured out in heartbeats—either pounding with fear, or stuttering to a stop. When at last Yvaleth came into the sanctuary and said, “That's all,” Cullen could almost hear those lost beats in the strain and distance of her voice. She couldn't save everyone, and she was young to learn that harsh lesson—but fate was no respecter of innocence.

In any event, dying outside or inside, what did it matter? There was an Archdemon attacking them, and no Grey Wardens within a hundred miles. For a moment, Cullen thought of Neria. Knowing what an Archdemon was and seeing one were two entirely different things, and his heart swelled as he thought how brave she must have been. How clearly she must have known the creature held her death.

And then the pale-faced boy who had slipped in ahead of the armies spoke, about a secret passage, an escape into the mountains. And Cullen didn't have to imagine Neria's bravery as he looked at Yvaleth's face and saw what she meant to do. “Yvaleth...” His voice was low, and there was a tremor in it he couldn't hide.

“If he wants me, that will give you time,” she said, rapid and hard, trying not to look at him. “You can get them out, protect them. They...they didn't sign up for this.”

Neither had she, but that didn't matter, and both of them knew it. Cullen wanted to say something, anything that would cut through this knot of horror and make her come with them. But he couldn't think of anything, and there was no time. Only the sluggish beat of Roderick's heart, his own thundering heartbeats. They were poised, balanced on a blade's edge, and in a moment they must fall. “Yvaleth,” he said again, as if her name were the key to all the words he couldn't unlock, the words that would make it right. “Let me come with you,” he blurted.

She shook her head. “They need you, Cullen. You will help them. You _can_ help them. I can only do this.” And as much as he wished to deny it, she was right. Though he'd created officers, they weren't trained or tried enough to hold command in such terrifying circumstances, not without him to rouse them. And in this last extremity, Yvaleth didn't need a lover: she needed a commander she could trust.

Cullen nodded slowly, reluctantly. Forcing his mind into the future—but time, there was no time—he said, “Try and let us get through the tree line. We'll be easy targets until we find some cover.”

“I'll do my best,” Yvaleth said, and there was something deliberately light in her tone. They both knew how little control she would likely have over the encounter.

He tried to smile for her. And finally, he said, “Yvaleth...nothing in the heavens or earth could have prepared me for you. If anyone can...”

A flash of pain crossed her face, but she took in a deep breath, steadied herself, and nodded. She caught his hand, regardless of the people surrounding them, and pulled it to her lips, kissing his palm, and he could feel the fear in her, struggling to gain mastery. But Yvaleth's voice, when she spoke, was steady. “If anyone can, then I _will_ ,” she promised.

And then she was gone. There was no more time.

***

Yvaleth had stopped shivering, and the hungry, sick feelings that had plagued her for the first few hours of her march through the storm had stopped. The fear was gone too. Now she was only tired, tired and so clumsy that it took every bit of concentration and strength she had to put one foot in front of the other. _Keep walking_. She had said it to herself, over and over during the first hour, over the nausea and pain that attended every shallow breath. Keep walking. She couldn't remember why anymore—surely it would be better to lie down in a snow bank, to close her eyes and sleep. But the words stayed when the intellect that had formed them deserted her. Keep walking.

And then there was light in the darkness, uncertain and wavering, but coming closer. Now, surely she could lie down? Now she was done? But she kept walking. Left foot. Right foot. Left. Right. She couldn't feel her feet touching the ground, and so instead she watched them, willing them to remember what to do. Left. Right. Keep walking.

Then there were shouts, and people, coming closer—Cullen, sweeping her up into his arms. He was saying words, but Yvaleth didn't know words anymore, and her feet kept moving jerkily, even now that there was no ground beneath them. Keep walking.

But she couldn't walk now. The ground was gone, everything was gone, dark and fading...and with a little sigh, Yvaleth turned her face into the fur of Cullen's mantle and passed out.

***

Yvaleth's nose hurt. She could feel it stinging and burning, and she gave a little whimper of protest, and as she roused further, she realized that it wasn't just her nose. Her fingers and toes felt hot and stiff and strange and they _hurt_. Her belly gave a loud groan of hunger, deciding to join the general revolt, and Yvaleth whined, trying to turn her face into the softness that she could feel beneath her head.

“Yvaleth. Wake up, _da'len_ ,” came a soft voice from beside her, and without opening her eyes, she knew it was Solas. She gave another whine, petulant now, but eventually opened one eye.

“My nose hurts,” Yvaleth said accusingly.

“You're lucky you still have a nose,” Solas said. “The pain means the flesh is still quite alive. Your fingers and toes were worse, but I managed to repair the worst of the damage. Sit up a little, and I can give you something for the pain. You should eat.”

That was awful—move, or just lie there and hurt? Moving seemed like an awful lot of trouble, but with some help, and prodding, from Solas, Yvaleth finally pulled herself up into a half sitting position. She still felt fuzzy, and pain was most of what she was able to process, but gradually Corypheus's attack returned to her, and she lifted a hand to her side, surprised that breathing was no longer the sharp pain it had been after her fall.

“I healed your ribs,” Solas said, answering her unspoken question, and then someone brought a bowl of soup, and he opened a small phial and emptied it into the soup before stirring and holding up a spoonful before her mouth. “It's lucky that Adan at least saved his emergency medic's kit—and that you saved him.”

Yvaleth tried to take the spoon from him, but in addition to hurting horribly, there were blisters on them from the frostbite, and after a fumbling attempt, she gave up and ate the soup from his hand, making a face at the bitterness of elfroot and black lotus she could taste in it, along with the sharp burn of alcohol that was the base of the tincture. “You must get bored,” she said between bites, and when Solas looked at her questioningly, added. “Waiting for me to wake up all the time.”

He gave a wry laugh and fed her more soup. “You do seem to attract a good deal of trouble.” And though he was smiling, the smile didn't reach the unhappiness that shadowed his eyes. “Perhaps you may call it my penance. We were certain you must be dead when...”

“So was I,” she sighed. “I seem to take a lot of killing.”

“Indeed.” Solas fed her the rest of the soup and eased her back into a resting position. Already the potent lotus was making her eyelids heavy, but she resisted the deep pull of sleep. “Cullen...?”

“Adan chased him away after he nearly knocked over a lantern,” Solas said. “He kept jumping up every time you even breathed loudly. Sleep now, _da'len_. The rest will wait.”

***

All Yvaleth wanted, when she woke again, was to see Cullen, to be held in those strong arms, bathed in his love. But circumstances were arrayed against her. First he was arguing with the others—and then, after they had sung, when Yvaleth only wanted to run her fingers over Cullen's weary face and comfort him, Solas had pulled her aside to discuss the future. And after that, she had to talk to the advisers about it and convince them to follow her to the north, to a distant fortress they had never even heard of.

But when all that was finally done, the others drifted away, leaving Cullen and Yvaleth alone huddled over a small fire. It was dark, and cold, and Yvaleth's fingers and toes still hurt, but she leaned back to look up at the sky, never failing to be awed by the canopy of fiery stars arrayed over them. A soft sigh of content escaped her.

“You should sleep more,” Cullen said. “We'll have to move at dawn, you ought to have all the rest you can.”

Yvaleth shook her head, lowering her gaze to regard him fondly. “I slept a whole day. And now I am with you, I could wish to never sleep again.”

“Yvaleth...” In his soft whisper, she could hear all the wonder he felt at her presence, all the fear that had tormented him. “I still can't believe you're here.”

“Maybe if you held me very close,” she said slyly.

Cullen laughed and looked around, a little self-conscious. But the camp was mostly quiet, and in a moment, he had her tucked between his body and the fire, his arms wrapped tightly around her, his face pressed into her hair. “Solas kept swatting my hands away when I tried to touch you—I was afraid I would hurt you, even now. But you're right. This is better.”

“Best,” she corrected on a little sigh, letting her head fall back against his broad chest. “I love you so much.” It occurred to Yvaleth, then, that they hadn't actually said that yet, love.

But Cullen immediately answered, “I love you too,” as easily as that, and she knew that even if they hadn't said it, they had both _known_ it, for a long time. Then he gave a big, jaw-cracking yawn, and Yvaleth twisted her face, laughing up at him.

Cullen took advantage to kiss her lightly. “Don't laugh at me,” he scolded. “We didn't all get to sleep all day.”

Yvaleth was immediately repentant. Of course, and Cullen had been up the night before, searching for her and then, apparently, trying to set the healers' tent on fire. “You must sleep,” she said decisively, trying to stand up, but Cullen tightened his arms around her.

“Nope. Never letting you go,” he said, and she could _hear_ the sleepy grin in his voice.

“Cullen!” She kissed his jaw. “Then let's sleep together.” Cullen made a little sputtering sound and she realized how that sounded. “I mean go to bed together! That is--” She gave up in despair. “Please?”

“People will talk,” he said uneasily.

“Well, but they'll be mostly right, won't they? I mean...they'll be right eventually, anyway?” Wouldn't they? Cullen was religious; she very much hoped he didn't have some kind of ideas about chastity.

“I suppose so,” he admitted. “All right. Damn the proprieties anyway.” He led her to his own little tent, and was very assiduous about making sure she was comfortably settled on the sleeping furs, with one of the scarce blankets over her, before he joined her.

“There,” he murmured, drawing her head to pillow on his chest. “Warm enough, sweetheart?”

“Mmhmm.” Yvaleth tugged the blanket over him more, and draped her arm across his stomach, almost drunk with so much touch and tenderness. “This is the best thing,” she sighed. “It's always the best thing, being with you.”

He touched her cheek. “Me too,” he said simply, and then Yvaleth let herself be lulled to sleep by his soft breathing and the warmth of his body.

She wasn't sure how long they slept, but it was still dark when she awoke, with Cullen twitching and jerking beneath her. “No...” he groaned, and then his voice rose almost to a shout. “No!”

“Cullen.” Yvaleth half sat up, shaking at his shoulder. “Cullen, wake up.” His hand shot up to grip her wrist, and it was too dark for them to really see one another, but she could hear his fear in the quick, frantic breaths. “It's me, Yvaleth.”

He released her immediately and dropped back, groaning. “I—I woke you.”

“You were having a nightmare. Are you all right?” She snuggled in close to him again, petting him absently everywhere she could reach, wanting only to comfort him.

“I'm fine,” Cullen said, his voice flat. “I'm sorry I disturbed you. This...this was a bad idea. I'm used to sleeping alone.”

The sting of rejection flared into anger. “And it would be a better idea for you to suffer alone? Cullen, I don't care if you wake me. You could wake me every ten minutes and I'd still want to be with you.”

“It isn't yours,” he said stubbornly. “You shouldn't have to suffer for it.”

Yvaleth was really angry then, and she half sat up, glaring into the darkness where he was. “Cullen Rutherford, it is so mine. You...” She struggled for words, wanting to make him understand how important he was, how much he meant to her.

Then it occurred to her that she hadn't told him about the despair demon, about how her faith in him had been what saved her. “I didn't tell you before, but...you saved me, Cullen.”

“What, last night? You were so bloody determined I believe you'd have walked to Redcliffe, if I hadn't found you.”

“No, not last night. With the demon. When I had to face it, in the Fade. It...took the forms of people. Leliana first, and then my mother...and then you. You, dying in the snow because I hadn't been there to protect you. And you—it pushed the sword at me and said, 'lie with me.' 'Join me.' And I knew it wasn't you. With the others, Solas had to help me see through the illusions. But I knew you would never want me to be hurt, no matter what. That was when I killed it. Because of you. So don't you dare say it isn't mine. It is. _You're_ mine.”

She heard Cullen suck in a sharp breath, and then he reached up, drawing her back down into his arms. “I'm sorry. You're right. I believe...I believe I would have gone mad if I had lost you at Haven, Yvaleth...” There was a ragged note of tears in his voice.

“It's all right. It's all right,” she whispered, patting his stomach. “I told you, if anyone could, I would come back to you. And I always will. I swear it, Cullen.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all--just a note that it may be a little bit before I can update again. I'm heading off to...well, the deathbed of a family member today, so I don't know how much time I'll have for writing in the next few days. Rest assured, I'll be diving into my little fantasy cocoon as soon and as often as I can. Thanks for your patience and all the wonderful encouragement.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Yvaleth finds her home

“Did you ever think,” Yvaleth said, breathless but cheerful, “that you'd see a bunch of _shemlen_ ass-deep in the snow following a pair of elves?” They'd been walking for over a week, but they'd managed to buy supplies at a village a few days back, so while there was some impatience in the party, they at least weren't freezing or starving.

Solas laughed. “I cannot say I did. But then, almost nothing about you is even remotely foreseeable.”

Yvaleth made a face. “It's not _me_. Things just keep going mad.”

“And you keep rising up to put them right.”

Mildly annoyed, and feeling playful, Yvaleth stooped and grabbed a double handful of snow, packing it quickly into a ball and hurling it squarely at the back of Solas's shiny bald head. He whirled around, glaring, and Yvaleth tried to look penitent, but couldn't help doubling over with laughter.

“You used to be such a nice, respectful _da'len_.” His eyes were narrowed, but his expression was fond rather than truly vexed.

“And you didn't used to say silly things, _hahren_ ,” she retorted, scampering forward to fall in step beside him once more. “ _I'm_ the same.”

“You really think that, don't you?” Solas asked, and now he seemed amused about something. But he didn't share the joke, only said, “When we are settled again, I'd like to begin teaching you rift magic. You have a natural affinity—well, perhaps natural is not the word, but innate.”

Yvaleth nodded slowly and looked up at him. “I didn't think you'd still be here. Now the Breach is closed. I thought your debt would be paid.”

“A part. But I have more than one debt, _da'len_.”

“And I am to pay them.” Yvaleth wasn't angry about that, only wondering. Oddly, she didn't mind the idea of paying a debt for Solas. After all, didn't she owe him a debt, for all he had done for her? More than that, didn't she somehow owe destiny a debt? For the Breach was closed, her accidental role in the Inquisition concluded—and yet she was still here. For a moment, she could sense the great tapestry of obligation that fate and man worked together, and if it was a heavy thing, there was beauty in it too.

“Not all of them,” Solas replied. “Even I am not so cruel as that. I would not crush you so—and I owe you a debt too, _da'len_. But yes, you have a part to play.”

“Are you cruel?” Yvaleth asked, genuinely. “I think you very kind.”

A pained look crossed his face then, as if she had hurt him deeply, and he did not answer. But then he stopped, ears pricked. “Listen.”

Yvaleth stopped too, and after a few seconds she heard it, hoofbeats coming toward them. It sounded like a lot of horses, but as she listened, Yvaleth realized it wasn't the controlled gait of a mounted patrol; the sound was looser and lighter. Then whinnies as they came closer, and finally, a loud, triumphant bugling sound.

Then they broke over the crest of the hill: Enansal, leading a pack of the Inquisition's horses. Yvaleth ran toward them, stumbling over rocks in the deep snow, laughing giddily. The hart reared up and bugled again, plainly very proud of himself, and Yvaleth flung her arms around his neck, laughing and crying at the same time, for she had been very sure her precious friend was dead. Cullen had told her that they'd opened up the stables after the first, devastating attack from the dragon, but no one knew how many of the mounts had even made it out.

There were more shouts as others came forward to greet the horses, and the spirits of the whole party were lifted by this unexpected boon. Scouts had gone back to Haven to save what few supplies they could from the ruins, but the horses were a treasure they could not have easily replaced. They were quickly equipped with crudely tied lead ropes, but Yvaleth did not tie Enansal—it would have been an insult to the noble animal who had come to her. Instead she walked beside him, her hand on his neck, murmuring words of praise and love.

“You're going to make Curly jealous,” Varric teased, trotting up alongside her. He was riding bareback now; walking in the deep snow had been harder for him than the rest.

Yvaleth stuck out her tongue at him. “Cullen knows better.”

“The powerful mage and the templar with a troubled past...might even break my sales records for _Champion of Kirkwall_.”

“Varric, I am _not_ fodder for your stories, and neither is Cullen.”

“Isn't it better to have your story written by your friends instead of your enemies?”

Friends. The word warmed Yvaleth, melting away her annoyance. It was true, she had friends now, and even as she continued to scold Varric for his teasing, there was no real barb to it. He was her friend. She had friends. A lover, she hoped. Soon, perhaps even a home. Her mind flashed to Clan Lavellan, to the exhausting sameness of every day, the coldness that had sent her into the woods so often. They would never believe how happy she was now, couldn't even comprehend such joy, she was sure. It was hers, hers alone, and more joys lay ahead...

And also the task of defeating an apparently immortal enemy who had fixed his fierce hatred on her. That sobered her, and though Yvaleth walked lightly through the snow, her shoulders hung heavy and burdened under the weight of so much responsibility.

***

_Tarasyl'an Te'las_. Skyhold. From the moment Yvaleth saw the fortress, her heart seemed to swell with love, with such an intense attachment that it almost seemed preordained that this place should be her home. The love stole away all her tiredness from the days of weary marching, so that she ran up stairs, leaping over fallen stones, seeing not a ruin, but possibility. She broke up rotting remains of furniture with her own hands, helping to build a huge fire in the great hall and beaming with satisfaction as she watched the cold and weary travelers warm themselves before it.

Though they had arrived late in the afternoon, there was still plenty of work to be done directly, and Yvaleth entered into every task with energy, from clearing out the stables to helping Josephine assign envoys to the nearest merchants in an effort to begin organizing supply lines. There were a hundred decisions to be made about the space, and it was well past midnight when Yvaleth finally stopped and realized simultaneously that there was no one waiting for her attention and that she was very, very tired.

She wondered where Cullen was, but only vaguely. The sweetness of sleeping in his arms had proved to be an only infrequent pleasure: although he always welcomed her warmly when she came to him, he usually worked far later than she could stay awake, and he never came to her. It hurt for him to choose distance from her so readily when all she really wanted was to be with him, but the press of keeping the Inquisition hale and whole through the trials had left her with little time to brood over it.

Most of the people were bundled together in the great hall for warmth in large, concentric semi-circles around the fire, but Yvaleth couldn't bring herself to lie among them. The nervous, excited energy that had sustained her for so long was now at low ebb, and she longed for quiet and solitude, not snoring and jostling. She was about to go down to the stables to bed with Enansal when Cassandra approached and touched her arm quietly.

Yvaleth looked up at her, wary but not unfriendly. Though the hurt of Cassandra's actions over the despair demon had not entirely faded, it had been laid aside in favor of necessity over the last couple of weeks, and they had worked together well enough.

Cassandra led her through a couple of rooms into the cloistered garden at the heart of Skyhold. Bracing herself for the chill of the outer courtyards, Yvaleth was surprised to find it wasn't very much colder than it had been in the hall, at least in the areas further from the fire. Two bedrolls were laid out under the shelter of the cloisters, and she looked at Cassandra questioningly.

“I know you like better to be alone,” Cassandra explained. “Even when we are in camp, you usually draw apart from the others. I could not find Solas or Cullen, but I will bring Leliana to guard your rest.” She turned away abruptly.

Yvaleth chewed her lip, hesitating for a moment, then reached out to catch Cassandra's arm. “No, don't—that is, you needn't. I hope Leliana is already asleep, I would not disturb her. I can stay on my own. Thank you for this. It's warmer than I'd have thought.”

“Something about the way the fortress is constructed—the center, here, holds warmth. Elven magic, perhaps. You would know better than I. I suppose it is designed to protect the gardens.” Cassandra was not looking at her. “But you cannot stay alone.”

It was clear Cassandra assumed her own company would be unwelcome. Yvaleth closed her eyes for a moment, the pain of betrayal warring with her own declaration that she had forgiven Cassandra. If she forgave her, truly, then they ought to be able to sleep side by side. Otherwise, she was a liar, pretending to virtue that she could not muster. And if she didn't trust Cassandra in the same way she once had, she did know perfectly well the Seeker would not allow any harm to come to her. “You could stay, then? You need to rest too.”

Cassandra finally looked her in the eye, her own gaze startled. And she gave a long sigh before nodding. “Very well. If you wish it.”

Yvaleth took the bedroll that was closest to the edge of the cloister, so that she could look up at the stars while she lay. She gave a stifled grunt as she sat down to pull off her boots. “I hate these.”

Cassandra was undoing her armor, and she didn't answer at first, but when she lay down in only her shirt and soft trousers, she said, “You do seem to hold a grudge against your clothing. One would think you'd prefer to be naked.”

“I would,” Yvaleth grumbled. “Dalish children don't wear clothing until they are...oh, eleven or so. Then we're betrayed into captivity.”

“Captivity to...clothes...?”

“Just so.” Yvaleth lay down, wiggling a bit and growling. “Ohhhh my spine.” She hadn't realized how exhausted and sore she was until her weight came to rest.

Cassandra gave a grunt of agreement, then looked over at Yvaleth. “I wish I could find you a more comfortable rest. You deserve it.”

“We all deserve it,” Yvaleth said, deflecting uncomfortably. “We've been walking for so long.”

“But there is a 'we' because of you. You saved the Inquisition.” Cassandra looked rather pained. “Yvaleth...I wish...”

“Don't,” Yvaleth interrupted, not wanting to hear another apology. “Unless it's to tell me you wish we could lay in a good ale cellar, or something else we can do. The future is the place for wishes, not the past. What's done isn't worth wasting wishes on.”

“Then...then I wish I could be the friend that you deserve. That is for the future.”

Yvaleth closed her eyes and tried to smile. “You already did me a very good turn when you sent Cullen to me.”

“I owed it to him no less than to you. He never believed you were an abomination. He agreed to my...test because of the risk, but he never liked it.”

That brought a true smile to Yvaleth's lips. But she turned her face away, toward the stars, and after a moment she pointed up, her hand sketching lines among the stars. “See, the owl is hunting. You call him Darkness, yes? But here we are, hidden away safe from his talons. In the place where the sky is held back. Safe.”

“Safe,” Cassandra whispered, as if she couldn't quite believe it. But nestled under blankets and furs, the two exhausted women slowly passed from waking into sleep, their breathing coming slow and deep while stone and determination held back the sky.

***

By mid-morning the next day, Josephine had set up a war room, the table so new it still smelled of sawdust, and the floor still wet from where rat droppings had been sluiced away. Looking around the table at Yvaleth, Cassandra, Leliana and Josephine, Cullen felt a surge of pride in all of them, in how their fierce will had fought back the worst possible attack, carried the Inquisition here, and moved forward in the face of the odds. He was well aware that his own role was, in this case anyway, the least important. It gave him a little pang to know that he, who ought to be their protector, had not been of the slightest use in protecting them from Corypheus.

His reverie was interrupted when Cassandra said, “Yvaleth, there is a matter we would lay before you.”

Yvaleth looked up from the stack of parchments Josephine had put on the table. “Hmm?”

“The Inquisition now has a fortress more suitable than Haven—a permanent home. And it is past time we had a leader: an Inquisitor. This is not a new consideration, but it can no longer be delayed. Yvaleth, I would ask--”

“Do I need to swear fealty to you or something?” Yvaleth asked, already looking back down at the parchments as if bored. “I suppose it's not proper that I should be a free agent and making decisions. Not safe.”

Leliana laughed aloud and reached into a pocket of her cloak, pulling out a few coins and handing them to Josephine. “You win.”

Josephine's dark eyes sparkled in amusement, and Cullen couldn't help smiling too, even though a part of him wished he could spare Yvaleth this burden somehow. She was so innocent in a strange way: not exactly naïve, but so very strong and bright that he couldn't help worrying that the mantle of leadership would spend and spoil her strength in part. She would rise to the challenge, he knew that, but it would cost her something dear. But they had all agreed that Yvaleth was the right person to be Inquisitor. Indeed, as soon as Cassandra brought it up, Josephine had pulled out a series of sketched designs she'd been making for Yvaleth's personal seal as Inquisitor and asked their opinion on them. Any faults of youth or inexperience could be balanced by their support, and Yvaleth was clearly already the leader the people looked to for inspiration. The hero who had faced down incredible odds to save them, Andraste's beloved.

Cassandra's lips twitched as well. “I was thinking we would do it the other way around, if you approve.”

Then Yvaleth did look up. “Beg pardon?”

Leliana explained. “You are the one the people look to, Yvaleth. We would ask you to accept the title of Inquisitor and lead us. This is not a new idea. Cassandra and I have been considering it for some time. But now, it is almost a foregone conclusion. Will you?”

Yvaleth looked rather suspiciously at Josephine and then Cullen, as if she suspected some elaborate practical joke were being played. Cullen smiled at her, trying to show her all his love and support, and gave a little nod.

“But surely...I'm not even a human. It's silly, isn't it? The other sh—er, humans will laugh at you.”

“Let them laugh themselves to death,” Leliana said, looking somehow both amused and dangerous. “It's no bad thing to be underestimated, in our position.”

There was a long silence, and Cullen could see Yvaleth trying to work through it all. “But what if I do things you don't like?” She seemed very young then, and anxious.

Cassandra answered. “I am quite sure you will. I wasn't thrilled when you offered the mages protection, an opportunity to be full allies. But it was a decision, and it was the decision we needed. We will follow your orders, like them or not. A body cannot work without a head. We need your help.”

At that last, Yvaleth's face changed, and Cullen knew they had her. His sweet Yvaleth only ever wanted to help. “If you really wish it, then...then I suppose I am honored. There isn't a hat, like Divine Justinia?”

“If there is a ceremonial hat for the Inquisitor, it is lost to history.” Josephine took the question in her typically earnest fashion, but her eyes shone with pleasure. “I am so glad, Inquisitor.” And she gave a low, formal bow, and the other three followed suit.

“When do we want to announce it?” Cullen asked. “I'll organize the troops.”

“This afternoon,” Cassandra said. “The sooner the leadership is clearly stabilized, the better for morale.”

Josephine nodded. “Very good. Now, supply lines. I've made a list of trading partners, some old and some our new position makes possible...”

With that, they moved on to immediate, pressing business, and over the next few hours they slowly hashed out priorities and resource allocation. Yvaleth seemed a little dazed at first, but eventually relaxed under the influence of normalcy. When the council was over, Cullen stayed back to talk to Yvaleth alone. She looked at him with wide, almost anxious eyes as he approached her, but when he wrapped his arms around her, she leaned against him with a little, grateful sigh, wrapping her arms around his waist. It felt natural, perfect, having her close in his embrace, and it made his chest ache with pleasure and longing.

“All right, my lady Inquisitor?” he said softly, kissing the top of her head.

She gave a little laugh. “Not if you're going to call me that.” Then she looked up at him. “Cullen—it won't matter, will it? You'll still—that is, we'll...?”

“I can't pretend it doesn't make things strange,” Cullen said honestly. “But I don't love you any the less, if that's what you mean. Thankfully it was Cassandra and Leliana who appointed me Commander, so there are no issues of favoritism.” Their relationship was already basically common knowledge after the nights they had spent in each other's arms, and even if Cullen could have wished they didn't have to play out their courtship in such a public theater, he knew Yvaleth was entirely unsuited to secrets. It couldn't be any other way.

“So this isn't why...” But Yvaleth didn't finish her sentence.

“Why what?” Cullen pressed gently.

She shook her head, hugging him tighter. “No, never mind. It doesn't matter.”

The unfinished sentiment weighed on them both, though, and after a few more moments, Yvaleth drew back, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ears. “Thank you,” she said, mustering a little smile.

Cullen didn't know how to answer that—didn't even really know what she was thanking him for—so he just smiled back, gave a slight bow, and left to return to his work. Yvaleth didn't need an anxious lover, she needed people she could rely on to support her in this great endeavor. Cullen knew he was not the man he had been, but whatever was left of him would serve her, no matter what.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your condolences and urgings to self care. I really appreciate you all and am glad to be able to return to this story. My father passed a week ago, and I'm not so much exactly grieving as...perplexed and feeling a bit like a fraud. It's been hard to get myself back into any of the routines I'm used to, but being a part of this supportive community means so much to me. I'm *almost* considering overcoming my hatred of Tumblr to make a new one for Dragon Age...


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen messes up big time

A few days later, a supply caravan reached Skyhold in response to Leliana's ravens, on the same day that their hunters brought in three bucks. The Inquisition had been on scant rations for weeks now, and Yvaleth ordered a feast that night. It was the first chance they'd truly had to celebrate since that disastrous night at Haven, and Yvaleth warmed as she watched the people fill their bellies with bright faces. It couldn't dispel all the shadows: Yvaleth couldn't see Flissa filling tankards without remembering the man—who had he been?--who had called out for help from inside a trapped cabin, help she hadn't been able to give. There were others lost too, and it seemed for every face there, Yvaleth could conjure another who wasn't.

Cullen wasn't in the great hall, and Yvaleth supposed he was still working. He'd cleared out a little room for himself on one of the ramparts, and he'd been working more or less day and night. They'd scarcely had more than a few stolen moments alone. Well, if the Inquisition needed a feast, an evening to rejoice in their hard labors, Cullen needed that too. So did she—and strong arms to keep her safe from the ghosts of her failures. And so, carrying a covered dish in one hand and a tankard of ale in the other, Yvaleth made her way up to the ramparts. The mud in the courtyard was deep and cold, lightly crusted with ice; long days of rain had finally broken winter's back, but were drearier than the bright days of fierce cold had been.

When Yvaleth finally gained Cullen's little office, which hadn't even a chair yet, only a high desk that he stood at to work, she found him staring blankly at a little box. He hadn't heard her enter. “Cullen?” she said softly.

He jerked, dismay plain in his face, and slammed the lid down on the box. “What do you want?” he asked, his voice rough.

Wet and cold and rebuffed where she had hoped for comfort, Yvaleth's face flamed, though she felt unpleasant chills running through her body. She stepped forward and lay the dish and tankard on his desk. “Nothing,” she said, her voice clipped, and turned to leave. With the instinct of a hurt animal, she wanted only to be alone.

“Yvaleth!” Cullen called, but she was already racing across the ramparts, fleet as a deer, and though she heard him come through the door behind her and call again, she outpaced him easily, flying down the icy steps. She skidded on one of the slick stairs down into the lower courtyard, but she kept going until she had bolted into the old gatehouse and closed the door behind her.

Shrouded in complete darkness, Yvaleth sank down against one of the cold stone walls, tears coming forth in deep, wrenching sobs that she bit her hand to stifle. She was still too shocked to even process the pain of Cullen's curt speech, much less the throbbing ache that was beginning to rise in her knee from her slip on the icy stone stairs. Hurt, miserable, alone. The situation was unpleasantly familiar, and Yvaleth felt a sort of despairing recognition. Why had she thought it would be different now?

She was relieved when there was no sound at the door. Her cunning in choosing an obscure, out of the way bolthole had granted the grace of solitude that both soothed and hurt her. But she didn't want Cullen to see her like this, a stupid girl crying because of a cross word from him. Even if he was sorry, it was too much. She was too much.

“ _Mythal, lamasta mar ashanal_ ,” Yvaleth whispered, praying to the only true mother she knew. _Mythal, have mercy on your daughter._ “ _Ma halani._ ” _Help me._

Her head jerked up when the door opened, then closed, but there was no light, and for a moment, Yvaleth couldn't tell if she were still alone or not. But then she heard a soft, melancholy voice. “Safe in the shadows. Safe. But it hurts. People hurt, and alone hurts. Didn't think he would hurt.”

Yvaleth's sorrow transformed into anger as she recognized Cole's voice, and she stood up, wincing as she tried to put weight on her injured knee. “Get out of here.” Her teeth were gritted.

“But it hurts,” Cole protested again. “Let me help.”

“And my hurts are none the less for being spoken aloud! Say one more word and I'll—I'll banish you!” She and Solas had agreed to keep Cole there and let him serve in his strange way. Yvaleth thought it would be no bad thing to have a spirit of compassion holding her to account. But she hadn't reckoned on him turning that compassion on her, or how ashamed and angry it would make her feel.

Cole gave a wretched cry, and the door opened and closed again, and Yvaleth shook her head slightly, not sure why she had risen, or why magic was tingling in her fingertips ready for use. Maybe someone had tried the door and then gone away? Abandoning the riddle, she slumped back down, wincing as she bent her leg and then stretched it out straight in front of her. She shivered a little, but had no inclination to move further, even though the healers were only yards away. She'd heal it herself later. For now, the pain in her body served as a kind of distraction from the pain in her heart.

Then Yvaleth dozed for a while in a kind of twilight misery. She wasn't sure how long it was before the door opened and Solas came in, carrying a lantern that made her hide her eyes from the comparative brightness. “Ah, _da'len_ ,” he murmured, looking down at her muddy, shivering form.

Confused and ashamed, Yvaleth whispered, “Don't.”

But Solas shook his head. “You cannot banish me, _da'len_. Behave.” His voice was gentle, but the last word was immovable, firm.

“Banish? What are you talking about?”

“Never mind,” Solas sighed, setting the lantern on the floor and going down on one knee beside her. “Do you really think it proper for the Inquisitor to freeze to death hidden away?”

Shame brought tears up to thicken her voice, and Yvaleth's ears drooped low. “No, _hahren_.”

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“M-my knee. Slipped on the steps. So stupid...” She gestured to her leg, which had now swollen dramatically around the injured joint. “I was going to heal it. Later.”

“Because freezing alone in the darkness while injured is a marvelous aid to magical work,” Solas sniped. He held up a hand when she tried to protest. “ _Durlahn_.” _Quiet_.

Yvaleth subsided into silence, only taking in a hurt, shaking breath when he laid his hand on her swollen knee. But almost immediately she felt warmth spreading from his touch, and the clamorous pain quieted. After a few moments he flexed and bent her knee, watching her face to see her reaction. “Well enough. Let's get you to a fire.”

Yvaleth wanted to protest, but she was too tired and embarrassed, so she allowed herself to be led to the rotunda off the main hall and settled on a stool before the lit brazier. Her muscles were sore from so much shivering tightness, and she held her trembling hands over the flames. Solas sat on the floor and said, “What happened?”

“I don't want to talk about it,” Yvaleth said automatically.

“Yvaleth.” Solas waited until she met his eyes, then said, “Does the Inquisition need an unhappy girl, or a strong woman?”

“Strong woman,” she mumbled. “More fools they for picking the wrong one.”

Solas gave an exasperated sigh. “Then at least try and be worthy of your position. Tell me what happened.”

His rebuke stung and so, reluctantly, Yvaleth told him of the unhappy encounter with Cullen. “It—it wouldn't be so bad if it was just that. But he never comes to me, _hahren_. He said he loves me, but...but I don't think he can, not like I love him. I know there is so much to be done, but when I rest, I would always rest with him, if I might.”

“You have not talked to Cullen about this, I take it,” Solas said rather dryly.

She shook her head. “What can he say? That he doesn't want me like...like I want him? That I am not rest for his heart and soul, as he is for mine? Perhaps it is cowardly, but...I would rather not hear those words.”

“You are already hearing those words. You are saying them to yourself. If you truly love Cullen, then you ought to at least hear the words he has to say. You do no one any good with this behavior.” Solas sounded entirely unsympathetic, though Yvaleth knew, on some level, that he was also entirely correct.

She was quiet for a long time, her head hanging low and her eyes half-shut. “I know I need to do better,” she said finally. “But I don't know how. I don't know how to not be hurt, or how to hide it behind a smile.”

“You are not the kind to learn hardness. But you can learn composure. I will help you. And you need to learn to face your problems instead of running away from them. _That_ is what the people expect from their Inquisitor. Not a passionless automaton or a jaded diplomat, but someone who does not back down from what is difficult. That is why you are the Inquisitor.”

Yvaleth gave a slight, mirthless laugh. “Corypheus wasn't half as terrifying as talking to Cullen about this.”

“I'm sure Cullen would be delighted to hear that,” Solas said with some amusement. “You must do it, all the same.”

“All right,” Yvaleth sighed. It felt comfortable and familiar to have Solas help her like this, and she thanked all the gods he didn't believe in that he hadn't left after the Breach was closed. “I'll talk to him tomorrow.”

“Very well. As to being more controlled, that will take time, but it will be as well to begin immediately. You aren't using a regular meditation ritual, are you?”

She shook her head. “Sometimes I go and sit in the woods to be still. But I haven't been able in ages, it seems like. It's too cold or too busy or people are following me or...” Yvaleth shrugged.

“That is why your ritual cannot depend on anything more than yourself. Close your eyes and sit up straight.”

The first, at least, was easy to obey, but Yvaleth also drew herself up, despite her fatigue. “Slow breathing, quiet breathing...you can still see the firelight behind your eyes, yes?” When she nodded, Solas continued, “Take a little part of it within you and imagine it lighting a candle within your breast. Keep the flame steady—feed it with your breath, and let it warm you. Steady and quiet, burning bright and true.” His voice was soft and hypnotic. “No tempests to make it flare up or dim. A constant, steady flame...”

Yvaleth could see the candle very clearly—he often suggested visualizations to help her learn a magical technique. At first the fire felt dim, almost ready to sputter out. But as she continued breathing, focusing only on the steady flame within, it grew clear and still, like a candle protected within a lantern. Then the brightness grew within her, and she could feel the quiet warmth penetrating her tight muscles, loosening them as her breathing grew gradually deeper and slower.

When Solas finally said, “Come back now, _da'len_ ,” Yvaleth slowly allowed herself to widen her focus outside her body to hear the crackling of the fire in the brazier, then opened her eyes to see the play of shadows. “Better?” he asked softly.

She gave a weary nod. “Yes, _hahren_. Thank you.”

“You are welcome. Go into that stillness each morning, and before you retire each night. I should have suggested a meditation discipline long before this.”

“We've had quite a lot to think of,” she reminded him.

“That only makes it the more necessary, and the more unforgivable that I didn't help you find a place of stability.” He rose. “Stay here—I'll find you some blankets.”

Yvaleth waited, her thoughts dreamy and insubstantial, and with the distance the meditation had provided, it was easier to keep them from overwhelming her. More, she was reassured by having clear direction and a plan—even though Solas had had to provide them for her. That caused a little, nagging worry, and when he returned with an armload of skins and blankets to lay beside his own bedroll, she said, “Is it weakness, this?” At his inquiring look, she elaborated, “How—how I honor you as my teacher,” she said, though that wasn't exactly what she meant. “How you look after me.”

Solas looked away, carefully arranging the skins. “Yes and no. Any need is a vulnerability, and therefore a potential weakness. You think, perhaps, that you ought to be more self-willed?”

She nodded. “I feel like a child still sometimes. Did—do you think they made a mistake? Only they know me, they ought to have known...”

“Children do not, as a rule, lack self-will,” Solas said wryly. “And no, in fact I do not think that. I said need is a potential weakness—but it can also be a source of strength so long as you take care to always be master of your needs instead of the reverse. You have a difficult role to play, and if you ignored your own nature in the process, you would be slowly hollowed out into something false and brittle. Too few lead with gentleness and care; it is not harder, not easier, than tyranny.”

Yvaleth joined him on the floor, snuggling down into the pile of bedding. “So I'm doing everything the hard way. As usual.”

Solas smiled before he turned away from her onto his side. “I would expect nothing less.”

***

It was tempting to wait until evening to approach Cullen again, but Yvaleth reasoned that she wouldn't exactly be better equipped to handle such a difficult conversation after a long, tiring day. And so, after talking with Cassandra and Josephine about an offer that had come in from the head of a band of mercenaries—Iron Bull, he called himself—Yvaleth made her way back up to the ramparts.

She hadn't lied about her fear of the encounter. Her heart hammered as she lifted her hand to knock on Cullen's door, and her mouth felt dry. But whatever happened, she would face it, not run away. She heard his call and opened the door, coming in. He was leaning over the desk with a couple of officers flanking him.

He lifted his eyes to her, then said, “If you'll allow me only a moment, Inquisitor, I can give you my full attention.”

“Of course,” Yvaleth said, noticing an irrepressible smirk on the lips of one of the officers. It annoyed her, but then, he wasn't exactly wrong—she was there for personal matters, not professional, even if it wouldn't be nearly as amusing as whatever the man was imagining.

Cullen finished going down a list of orders, then handed them off. The officers saluted and left, and the two were alone. “Yvaleth...” Cullen said softly. “I tried to find you last night. To...to explain.”

“I know,” she said in a small voice and tried to smile. “I'm an elf, we're good at not being found.”

“I'm sorry I spoke so to you. I...you found me in a moment of weakness, and I—I was ashamed,” he said, letting out a long breath.

Yvaleth nibbled her lip, then spoke slowly. “I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have run. We—we should be stronger than to be shaken by a cross word spoken in fatigue. Only...” This was the hard part. How could she explain to him that it wasn't just about that? That it was every night she'd fallen asleep alone, every time he'd come to find her, only to ask some brief, professional inquiry and then go?

“Only I missed you,” she confessed finally, softly. “I—maybe it's because I'm younger, so new at love. Or not as disciplined. But I love you, Cullen. I want to be with you. Wh-when you held me, I felt so safe. But you don't want to be with me,” she concluded in a whisper.

Cullen flinched at that. “That is _not_ true,” he insisted. “How can you think that?”

“You never come to me. I...is this how it will always be? That you kiss or embrace me here and there, but otherwise we are entirely apart? I thought...I want...” But she already felt helpless, naked and ashamed from all that she had revealed. Yvaleth wanted to go back in time and tell Solas to take his lessons and choke on them. How could this make her stronger when she felt so weak?

Cullen closed his eyes, and then he stepped forward until he stood very close, though he didn't embrace her. But he bowed his head, whispering, “I want too.”

She tipped her head back to look up at him. So ridiculously tall, like a huge, sturdy tree. “Then why?” She didn't try to hide the hurt in her voice.

“I thought...I thought it was the last thing you needed right now. How can I lay my burdens on you when you bear so many already? How could I come to your bed to wake you with my damnable nightmares and spasms? How can I demand your time when there are so many others...?”

Tears welled up in Yvaleth's eyes, but she was smiling, just a little. “Cullen...do you think I'm a burden? Because I cry and want to be close to you? Because I find rest in you and nowhere else?”

“No. Yvaleth, no,” he insisted. “You...I've failed badly if you don't know what you are to me, how much I...I need you.”

“Then why would I think you a burden? I told you before—if you carry a burden, then it is mine too. And...and it is light, so little compared with the burden of myself. What I would give to you, Cullen, all myself.” It was true. There was nothing she wanted to hold back from him. Her love was foolish and unreserved, which was to say it was entirely according to her nature. She forced herself to hold his gaze, trembling and yet thrilling with hope at the same time.

Then his arms did come around her, pulling her against his hard armor in a tight crush, and his lips came down on hers in a ravenous, hungry kiss. He'd never kissed her like that before, rough and wanting, and it made heat flush in Yvaleth's whole body as she moaned against his lips, rising up on tiptoe to meet him. One arm wrapped around his neck, drawing him down as best she could, while her other hand was in his hair, as desperate for him as he seemed for her.

Cullen growled low in his throat, a sound that made Yvaleth shiver, and one big hand cradled the base of her skull while the other came down to squeeze her bottom, firm and possessive. If she'd thought she was hot with desire before, his hand there was like a brand, searing her. Her thighs pressed together, and she rubbed against him, giving a little, needy whine.

Then he lifted her easily, carrying her over to the desk and setting her on it, pulling her legs apart so he could fit close between them. She made a protesting sound at losing the pressure there, but he swallowed it in another devouring kiss, and his hand on her ass encouraged her to grind against his hard thigh.

Yvaleth lost all sense of time, drifting in the haze of pleasure, writhing against Cullen in mindless need. But finally he stepped back a little, panting, his eyes still hot and hungry. When she looked anxious, he smiled. “Not like this, sweetheart. The door isn't even locked.” Then he reached out a hand and put it under her chin. “Josephine's setting up the quarters next to the great hall for you, yes?”

She nodded, not sure she could speak yet. The touch of his hand under her chin only made it harder; it felt both commanding and comforting, and raised a host of barely understood desires within her. She hadn't actually slept in her new quarters yet. Half the Inquisition was still camping in the hall or the kitchen like gypsies, and it had seemed natural to join them. She was better used to it, after all.

“I'll come to you there after dinner. Wait for me, my love.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's that I can see off in the distance? A prelude to LOVEMAKING? Why I believe so! Thanks as always for comments and kudos, y'all are such a delight to me.


	15. 15: Explicit Sexual and D/s content!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which this story finally justifies its new rating!

Cullen felt incredibly self-conscious as he walked toward the doorway at the back of the great hall. He'd told Yvaleth it didn't make any difference, her being the Inquisitor, and theoretically that was true. But he _hated_ having every tiny manifestation of their relationship being subject to scrutiny and amusement. Still...he doubted Yvaleth liked it any better than he did. She was straightforward, but also intensely private in many ways. He wouldn't show himself less ready to brave the embarrassment than she was.

When he'd entered and left the staring fools behind him, Cullen paused just inside the doorway to strip off his armor and stack it neatly until he wore only his short tunic and trousers. It made some tightness inside him ease, as if he could lay aside Commander Cullen and be only a man for her. That wasn't easy, but it also felt _right_. Commander Cullen belonged to Yvaleth too—but in a very different way. The self he'd buried for so long, though, was absolutely hers in a way that felt almost sacred.

Reckless, too, to abandon himself so completely to her. He had, after all, loved only once before—Cullen knew he _had_ loved Neria, even if he hadn't been strong enough for that love to have any chance at all. He'd loved her fierceness, the way she kept herself remote, proud and cold even as she submitted to every indignity of the Circle. He had failed Neria in so many ways, and today Yvaleth had made him see that his hesitation was a way of failing her too. It was Yvaleth who had bridged every difficulty between them, so brave and tender that it still made his heart stutter when he thought about it. He owed her more. He owed her everything.

More than that, he _wanted_ her to have everything, even if he wasn't entirely sure what that meant, who 'Cullen in love' might be. That fact was painfully reinforced when he came up the stairs and found Yvaleth sitting in front of the fire, and when she lifted her head to look at him, her face brightened until it shone like all the stars in the night sky. Her hair hung loose, and she was so beautiful he couldn't breathe for a moment.

“Tea?” Yvaleth asked, gesturing to the steaming pot that hung from a hook inside the fireplace. “I couldn't bring myself to ask them to prioritize a bed when so many are sleeping on the ground, but I did pull rank to get one of the pots that came in with the caravan.” She looked slightly abashed at the confession, and it was adorable and also reminded him just how uneasy she was with accepting the rewards she so plainly deserved. Yvaleth was good at many things, but looking after herself wasn't one of them.

And he ought to have stepped in to help her sooner. “Please,” he said, lowering himself to sit beside her on the little pile of skins she had made by the fire. He managed to suppress the slight wince that wanted to come from easing his stiff joints down.

Yvaleth beamed and said, “All my herbs burned up in Haven, of course, but I've been foraging a few times since we got here.” She opened up a small crock and proudly showed him what looked like a wet mess of decaying leaves and twigs.

“What are they?”

“Teaberry leaves, birch and rose hips. It's very tasty,” she added, putting a generous pinch of the mess into a bowl and then pouring the water over it. “And I showed some people how to prepare the birch sap for wine, but that won't be ready for a while yet, of course.”

The smell that rose up from the bowl, fresh and tangy, lent credence to her assertion, and Cullen was glad she had found time to practice her craft even with all her new responsibilities. And it was precious how eager she was to share this little bit of hospitality with him. “I've missed this,” he said softly.

“Truly?” Yvaleth glanced up at him, shy and uncertain. That uncertainty was his fault, he knew—his to mend.

“Truly,” he promised, laying one hand on her cheek. Her skin was winter-roughened, but warm, and she leaned into his touch with a little sigh, placing her small hand over his.

When the tea had steeped, she passed him the bowl, and Cullen took a long drink. It was a little sour, and strong, but it made him feel warmer and wasn't nearly as murky or at all bitter, as he'd feared from the strangeness of her obscure little ferment. “You always know how to make something from nothing,” he murmured.

Yvaleth waved her hand, deprecating. “It's only barely something. I'm hoping I can trade for some more herbs when we go up to the Storm Coast. Honey too.”

That afternoon, the war council had discussed Yvaleth going to the Storm Coast to meet with the Iron Bull, with detours to hunt down some of the Venatori, and Cullen had actually been a little surprised at how willingly she'd agreed. “Are you glad to be going?” he asked.

“I am,” she admitted. “Although I hope Varric will come back before we have to go. But I can hardly chide him when he's busy working his trading contacts for us. Only I'll have to take Sera if he's not, and...well, she's all right,” Yvaleth concluded, obviously saying only half her thoughts.

“All right?”

“I mean, I agree with her on most things of importance, but...do you know she said I was 'too elfy'? And she does chatter.”

Cullen bristled at even this slight criticism of Yvaleth. “You're just elfy enough.”

Yvaleth laughed and leaned closer to him. “Exactly. But still I'll be glad to get out of here. I was a little afraid I'd have to stay here always. But Leliana says I'm the best person to recruit for the Inquisition, so I'll be free for a little while anyway.”

“You don't like it here?” Cullen hadn't suspected that, from the heart and soul way she'd thrown herself into making Skyhold habitable.

“I love Skyhold, but it must always be full of people who—who look at me, expect something from me. It's not like that with Solas and Cassandra or the others who know me properly.”

They finished the tea together, and Cullen stared quietly into the fire for a while. Yvaleth touched her fingertips lightly to the place between his eyebrows and said, “You're hurting, aren't you?”

He pressed his lips together. He'd long since gone through the root that Yvaleth had given him, and his attacks had been coming back. It was hard not to think of lyrium all the time. That was why he'd been so horrified when Yvaleth had come in to find him staring at his lyrium kit. The last thing he wanted her to think was that she couldn't rely on him. But he couldn't lie either, and she wouldn't believe him if he did. “Yes.”

“We don't...” she hesitated, then continued, “that is, if you'd like to just rest, that's...that's fine.”

Cullen shook his head immediately. “I'd much rather continue our...conversation from earlier,” he said with a little grin, deeply enjoying the blush that sprang up on her cheeks. But then he went serious. “I don't want to frighten you, Yvaleth. If there is any excuse for my abominable neglect of you, it's that I've never been with a woman I loved or who loved me. In Kirkwall I...I held women cheaply, and they returned the favor. They were eager for my body, but...” He shrugged uncomfortably. There was only so much he could explain to Yvaleth about those days, when he'd been like an animal in rut, bending a woman over the table to take her roughly, letting desire alone rule him.

“It is a very nice body,” Yvaleth said with mock demureness.

“Thank you,” he chuckled, and now he knew he was blushing too. “My point is that I know this is new for you. But in a different way, it's new for me too.”

Yvaleth nodded, propping her chin on her hand. “I can't say you'd never frighten me, Cullen, because I suppose you could start stabbing me or something, and that would be scary. But...I'm not afraid. I love you. And so long as you love me, and don't stab me, I would never be afraid.”

But her reassurance only made him worry more. She was so innocent—she had no idea about the ways he might hurt her, even without meaning to. Still, once again she was being braver than he, ready to charge into the unknown while he hesitated. “I will always love you,” he promised and leaned down to kiss her, slow and tender.

She absolutely melted against him, and Cullen was delighted at her eagerness, how she'd learned to kiss him back, so different from the first, awkward kisses they'd exchanged. He lifted one hand and laid it on her neck and felt a little shudder ripple through her. Yvaleth was so exquisitely sensitive, and Cullen wanted to touch and tease every part of her just to watch her respond.

“Will you let me touch your skin?” he whispered, their lips only barely parted. “Everywhere?”

He could feel the flesh under his hand warming with another blush, but Yvaleth nodded immediately and drew back just enough to catch the hem of her tunic in her hand. But Cullen caught her wrist. “Let me, please. I want you very, very used to the feel of my hands on you.”

Yvaleth gave another shiver, but her nod again came quickly. Cullen let his lips drift down to her neck and slid his hands under her tunic, rubbing gently at the smooth skin of her sides and back. She was impossibly delicate, and she was making a whole symphony of sweet, needy sounds now, arching her back. He kissed her lips once more, briefly, then drew the tunic off over her head.

She wore no breast band, and Cullen supposed her small, delicate breasts weren't encumbrance enough to require support unless she was engaged in battle or vigorous exercise. “My beautiful dove,” he whispered, seeing a question in her eyes, and then he lowered his lips, kissing her shoulders and bringing up a hand to cup one soft breast.

“Cullen,” she hissed, pressing against his hand, and he gave a low chuckle and eased her down onto her back so she could relax and enjoy herself.

“Do you like that, dear heart?” he teased, gradually letting his kisses drift lower and delighting in the rippling of her skin under his mouth. “Shall I kiss your pretty breasts, sweeting?”

Yvaleth's arm wrapped around his neck, her fingers digging into his shoulders, moaning and arching her back to offer herself to him. That sweet gesture made him harden almost immediately, but he coaxed, “Tell me, let me hear your voice.”

“Please,” Yvaleth managed, her voice high and raspy. “Please, Cullen, feels so good...” And she tugged on his tunic, bunching the fabric on his fingers. “You too?”

“All yours,” Cullen promised, and he brought her other hand to his body, wanting her to undress him. “All that I am, Yvaleth.” She pulled impatiently, tossing his tunic aside and gave a little coo of pleasure like the dove he called her.

He couldn't help giving a cocky grin—Cullen knew very well what effect his body had on women, and though sometimes it embarrassed him, it delighted him to see Yvaleth enjoy him. He wanted to drown her with sweet pleasure, make her forget every care in utter joy. Then she lifted her head to kiss softly at the base of his throat, one hand stroking his hard, muscled chest, running her fingers through the golden hair there.

While she was exploring, Cullen brushed his thumb over her peaked nipple, making her shiver again. Then she mimicked the gesture, and he couldn't restrain a growl low in his throat. There was something very sweet and almost innocent about trading touches like this, learning each other's bodies, but Cullen had to rein in the deeper desires that wanted to take possession of him. He wanted to be inside her, to feel her tight and hot around him... He kissed her again, nipping lightly at her lower lip and twisting his hand in her beautiful, silky hair. With his tongue, he gave her a foretaste of exactly what he meant to do to her one day, ravishing her mouth with long, slow thrusts.

Then he kissed lower, down her throat and over her chest until his mouth closed over one nipple. He flicked it with his tongue, making her hiss and squirm. Her thighs were pressed tightly together, and her hips rocked back and forth. Cullen grinned when he realized that. He knew he wouldn't take her all the way tonight—he wanted her to get comfortable with him first, but he did want to give her pleasure. And from the noises she was making, she was very ready to let him.

“More?” he asked, letting one hand drift down her stomach to the lacing of her breeches. “It's all right if you don't want to...I'll stop any time if it's too much.”

“Want, Cullen, please...” she whispered hotly. “Want you...”

He smiled again and kissed his way back up to her face, letting her see the love and pleasure in his eyes. “I want you too,” he murmured, kissing her cheeks, her forehead and her nose. At the same time, he began unlacing her breeches until they hung loose at her hips. “Lift up for me, sweetheart.”

She obeyed, and Cullen sat up more so he could slide both breeches and smallclothes down her legs, glad she had removed her boots before he arrived. His mouth went dry at the sight of her beauty. Strong thighs, with just a hint of womanly softness, and the delicious red-gold curls gleaming in the firelight. He could smell her arousal, headier than the finest perfume. He threw the breeches to the side, caressing her thigh almost worshipfully. “Do you ever touch yourself, for pleasure?”

Yvaleth nodded, blushing, and he said, “Do you want to touch yourself now? Or would you like me to do it?”

A faintly anxious look crossed over her face at his question, and Cullen immediately took his hand away from her thigh, worried he'd pressed her too fast. “I won't do anything you don't want, Yvaleth, I promise. We have all the time in the world.”

“No, only...” Yvaleth chewed on her lip. “I'm afraid I'll say the wrong thing. What if the thing I choose isn't what you want?”

It took him a moment to place why that question was so familiar, and then he remembered how worried she'd been when they asked her to be Inquisitor. _What if I do things you don't like?_ He paused to consider her question, but returned to lightly caressing her body, not wanting her to think he was angry or put off. Yvaleth wanted to help, to tend people, and she was so hard on herself for every word she said amiss, every fault. If he asked her a question, she wanted to choose the thing he wanted, and worried if she couldn't tell what it was. That worry was the absolute last thing he wanted her to feel right now.

Pulling the pieces together, Cullen tried an experiment. “All right, sweeting. Spread your legs for me.” He kept the command light, one she could refuse if she wished. But she obeyed, immediately, and Cullen, who was watching her face closely, saw her relax, confirming his guess. All her submissive mannerisms were more than just being shy, or new at love, he saw. Heaven knew Yvaleth had no trouble expressing her opinions clearly when she felt it mattered. But here, she desperately wanted to be told, relieved from the responsibilities she carried. She said he made her feel safe, and this was the safety she craved, to allow herself to rest against him, trusting him, yielding herself wholly.

“Look at me,” he ordered, and Yvaleth's eyes went a little wide, so he gave her a soft, light kiss on the lips to reassure her. “From now on, when we're like this, you only have one choice left. Yes, or no. And if there's something you don't want or like, then I expect you to tell me no, do you understand? No matter what, even if you think I won't like it. But as long as your answer is yes, you'll do as I say.” He made his voice quietly commanding, still watching her very close.

“Yes, Cullen,” Yvaleth said, with a grateful sigh. “Oh, yes, please.”

He nodded, glad to see the anxiety entirely gone from her face. “Take off my boots,” he ordered. She hurried to obey, looking up at his face hopefully when she was done, and he rewarded her with a warm smile. “So good. Finish undressing me now. All that I am, remember? It's all yours.”

“All mine,” she chirruped, peaceful and content and seeming, somehow, to trust his promises better now. Her trust in him awed Cullen. What did she see in him that made her so eager to submit, to give herself to him so sweetly? Whatever it was, he was determined not to betray it.

Yvaleth hesitated for just a moment when she reached his smallclothes, but only very briefly—then she kissed his stomach and finished stripping him. She did so with almost practiced ease, which gave Cullen pause before he remembered that she was a healer and had probably handled more than a few bedridden patients intimately. Her eyes fixed on his arousal, and she looked just a little nervous—that, at least, was beyond her experience.

Wanting to keep her in the calm, happy, responsive state he'd seen, Cullen tugged her back up into his arms and kissed her again, letting one hand caress her hip and then rest lightly on her mons. “Yes?” he asked quietly, breaking the kiss to look deeply in her eyes.

“Yes,” she whispered, and Cullen kissed her again, sliding his fingers through the soft curls to find her warm and wet for him. She gasped and jerked, but then let out a long moan against his lips as he began smearing her juices over her clit.

“So wet for me,” he whispered. “Does that feel good, dear heart?” He rubbed slow circles over the swollen nub.

“Mmm....yes,” Yvaleth sighed, and she pressed shamelessly against his hand. She was absolutely delightful, so open and ready and eager. It took all Cullen's self-discipline to remember that he was _not_ going to fuck her tonight.

Instead he said, “Wrap your hand around my prick,” low and firm into her ear, enjoying the way she shivered again. It was quickly becoming clear that Yvaleth didn't just find it easier to submit—she found being commanded by her lover deeply erotic. She reached up, her small hand only covering about half his length, but Cullen had to hold his breath not to thrust into that warm touch. “Good girl,” he praised, teeth gritted. “Now squeeze and stroke.”

To keep himself from losing control, Cullen focused on her, trying out the touches she liked best. He settled into a firm caress on her clit while one finger went down to press against her opening. She was so tight that Cullen swore, then reassured her clumsily with a kiss as he continued sliding his finger inside her. “Yes?” he said again.

“Ye-es...” Yvaleth moaned, squeezing hard on his cock in reaction. Just as her tight little quim would squeeze him when he took her... Cullen was sweating, and he began rubbing more quickly, fucking her with his single finger and then, as she eased open for him, adding a second.

“Cullen!” she cried out, her head falling back, and Cullen forced his hand to still.

With the other, he laid a hand on her cheek and made her face him. “Yvaleth? Yes? No?”

“Yes!” she almost shouted, with an impatience that would have made him laugh if he hadn't been so tautly strung with desire for her. In answer, Cullen pulled his fingers almost out, then thrust them back in, making her whine and buck her hips up for more. He settled into fucking her steadily with his fingers while his own hips rocked into her hand. She was too distracted to do much more than hold on for dear life, but her thumb rubbed absently over his head, and it felt so damn good.

Then Cullen curved his fingers, pressing deeply inside her, and Yvaleth let out a little shriek. “Cullen, I...I...yes...yes...” She was sweating now too, and there was a kind of desperation on her face.

“Relax—show me your pleasure. Show me how good it feels to have your little quim filled,” he ordered, repeating the gesture while he rubbed hard and fast on her clit with his thumb. “Come for me, sweetheart. Now.”

Yvaleth groaned, her hips lifting up in a tight arch, her free hand twisting in the skins with a death grip. Her whole face was screwed up, and he could feel her tightening around his fingers, shivering as she broke to pieces under his skillful caresses. He kept rubbing, steady and firm, letting her ride out every shudder of pleasure until finally she was slumped on the skins panting.

“Good girl,” he whispered, even though she was barely holding on to his cock now, and he needed to come desperately. Changing positions, he lay on his back, gathering her close with an arm around his shoulders. “Keep touching, little dove, please.”

With his other hand, he covered hers, showing her the rough, fast motions he needed now. Her eyes were drowsy and half closed, but she tightened her grip, following his directions perfectly until Cullen gave a low shout and jerked his hips up, his seed splashing over her hand and his stomach.

It took a while for both of them to recover their breath, but finally Yvaleth whispered, “That was good?”

“So good,” he agreed, stroking her hair lightly and giving her forehead a quick kiss. “How do you feel?”

Yvaleth gave a sleepy grumble and finally offered, “Tired. It was never...never so much before, when I touched myself.” She lifted her hand, regarding the creamy smear on it with mild curiosity and a little wrinkle of her nose.

Cullen almost ordered her to clean his seed with her tongue, but that was surely too much, too soon. There would be time enough to teach her to lick and swallow his come. Instead he bestirred himself long enough to find a clean cloth and dip it in the now cooled water from the pot to clean them both up. When he was done, he pulled a few blankets over and arranged them in a cocoon together.

“You don't mind?” Yvaleth said, snuggling happily against him.

“Mind what, dear heart?” Cullen was absolutely exhausted, but he fought back sleep, wanting to enjoy this closeness, the sweetness of her body against his.

“Having to...give orders? That I want to obey?” He felt her give a little, sensuous shiver on the last word.

Cullen chuckled a little, wondering how she could imagine he would mind her eagerness to please him, the trust she offered to him so freely. “No, sweeting. I don't mind. I think part of me always knew this about you. And I could never want you to be anything but your darling self.”

He was surprised, then, to feel a little quiver from her, a hitch in her breathing, and when he looked down at her, her eyes were filled with tears. “Yvaleth? What is it? What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” she quavered. “Only I never thought anyone...I—I'm rude and stupid and I never think before I speak _and_ I'm not even bold enough to carry it off.”

Cullen couldn't help laughing a little bit at this terrible description of herself, but he hugged her closer, kissing away the tears. “I love you, Yvaleth. You. The girl who laughed while she tortured me with nettles, who took every single thing I said wrong. Who cared about my pain, who took my burdens for her own, who made me believe I could be a better man, one worthy of her. You.”

She buried her face in his chest. “I love you,” she answered, voice shaky. “I love you so much.”

Feeling protective, Cullen stayed awake, stroking Yvaleth's hair gently until her body relaxed into sleep and finally he, too, allowed himself to drift away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Herbalists do actually ferment teaberry leaves, which are one of the few consistent winter forages. Thanks as always for all the encouragement and support you've offered me!


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which life is sliced

“You could help.” Yvaleth was kneeling in the muddy garden, pulling out the stiff dead weeds that the spring thaw had revealed. Dorian stood nearby, holding a basket with her tools, but otherwise unoccupied.

“I'm amusing you. What could be more helpful? Besides, they're too wet to burn.” Dorian eyed the sodden earth with distaste.

“Why do I feed you again?” They both knew she didn't mean it. Dorian might not be much good in the weed-pulling department, but he'd taken charge of equipping the tower for the mages and sent for a good many of his own possessions to make up for the many lacks.

“Because it looks so very impressive to have your own tame Tevinter mage,” Dorian said lightly. “And I keep an eye on Vivienne for you.”

Yvaleth gave a little grunt as she wrapped both hands around a deep, thick dandelion root and pulled. “Anything interesting there?”

He shook his head. “No. Disappointing, really. I was hoping to make a lovely showing in the Grand Game. As far as I can tell, this is a simple maneuver for prestige. You should be pleased, it means she's betting on you.”

Yvaleth shrugged. “There's still time for you to make a splash. We need to do what we can to protect Empress Celene. Perhaps you can stab someone in a shadowy stairwell.”

“Do I look like a stabber?” Dorian demanded indignantly. As Yvaleth looked up at him, rubbing her nose thoughtfully with the back of her hand, he hurriedly added, “Don't answer that.”

“Only a stabber of the very best people,” she promised him. Yvaleth was fond of Dorian, even if he wouldn't sully his fingers in the earth. He was like Varric—all play on top, but it was only to disguise the deep currents of loyalty just beneath the surface.

They were interrupted when a messenger came up with an agitated note from Josephine that Quartermaster Threnn had insulted one of the King's messengers who had come in the day before. Recollecting her own interactions with the blunt woman, Yvaleth wasn't surprised. “Ask Cullen to reassign her so she's not interacting with visitors. Or...well, maybe people at all,” she ordered. “Tell Josephine if she can keep the messenger here, I'll grovel nicely this evening.”

“Yes, Your Worship.” The messenger saluted and moved away.

“Don't want to take that...message...to Cullen yourself? Maybe he likes muddy women,” Dorian teased.

“I suppose I could find out tonight,” Yvaleth said cheerfully. “I do hope Josephine can source a bath soon. Do you know how nice it is to sit in a tub in front of a fire? At Haven, they'd bring it and hot water, and it was like my own tiny hot spring.”

Dorian looked amused at her naïve pleasure in the wonders of indoor bathing, but didn't tease her about it. “But all is well, there?”

Yvaleth nodded, scooting on her knees to a new patch. “Oh, yes,” she said with a little smile. “Everything is lovely. Mind, we haven't...”

“Haven't...consummated your ardent passion?” Dorian prompted.

“But that's only because he says we shouldn't when I have to be traveling on horseback so soon.” Yvaleth lowered her voice for this revelation, blushing a bit.

“Cocky devil,” Dorian replied, looking impressed. “You're a sly little thing to steal the finest specimen before I even arrived.”

Yvaleth laughed. “Dorian, you'd scare Cullen to death.” She tried to imagine Cullen on the receiving end of Dorian's wiles, and it set off a lengthy fit of giggles.

“Possibly,” Dorian acknowledged. “Which would be wasteful. But I am glad you're happy, sweet Inquisitor.”

“Just don't tell Fen'harel,” Yvaleth murmured superstitiously.

“Pardon?”

“Oh, it's something we say in my clan, if someone congratulates someone on good fortune, a fine kill in the hunt or something like that. We say 'Don't tell Fen'harel,' or, 'May the Dread Wolf not hear of it,' because of course he would want to ruin it.”

“Cheery folk you come from.” Dorian pursed his lips.

Yvaleth gave a mirthless laugh. “You have no idea.”

***

Cold. It was so cold, and Yvaleth could feel the blizzard coming up, driving the snow into a frenzy. But it still hadn't blown away the smell of smoke in the ruined town of Haven. It filled Yvaleth's nose, acrid and unpleasant. She dragged forward, step by step, but with no real sense of destination. She had to keep going. Bodies, burned alive, sprawled on every side, but Yvaleth had to move. He would come back. He would find her.

And then a pile of scorched timbers shifted, and Corypheus stepped out of the ruins of the tavern. “Did you think I would leave it to chance, little accident?” He caught her wrist and yanked Yvaleth off her feet like a ragdoll. “Chance is for the weak...”

Yvaleth shuddered and struggled, and then pitched out of the dream, gasping and with her heart pounding so hard it hurt. She could feel hard hands on her shoulders. “Let me go!” she cried, still half dreaming.

“All right, Yvaleth, it's all right.” The hands withdrew, and Yvaleth stared into Cullen's worried golden eyes as he knelt over her.

Yvaleth let out a long groan and lay back, her heart still racing. “Sorry. Sorry.” There was no light coming in from the window, and the room was achingly cold.

“It's all right,” Cullen repeated. “I did the same thing about a quarter of an hour ago. I was just building a fire—I left it too low when we went to sleep, and it went out.” He pulled more blankets over Yvaleth—she must have thrown them off in her dream struggle. “There. I'll have it warmer soon.”

She nodded, watching as Cullen fed the fire a little more tinder, then judiciously placed a log. That must have been the smoky smell that was so vivid. “We're a fine pair, aren't we?” she sighed. “At least I didn't wake you.”

Cullen balanced another log on top, then came to join her under the blankets, hugging Yvaleth close to his chest. “The finest,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head.

They stayed in the bedding, snuggling and whispering until the room was bearably warm again, and then Yvaleth put on a pot of water to boil and did her morning meditation while Cullen knelt to say his prayers. This was beginning to take the shape of routine, their mornings together, how they built up custom curling around one another. It was still fragile, and new, but very sweet too, the way Cullen smiled over the tea she offered him (which was finally tea rather than woodland forage), and the way he insisted on combing out her hair himself, patiently working out each snarl with gentle fingers.

“Let me rub your shoulders since we're up early? You shouldn't put on your armor while you're still all stiff,” Yvaleth coaxed.

“Yes, Healer Lavellan.” Cullen yielded with a smile, and Yvaleth perched on a cushion behind him, warming oil in her hands before sliding it over his muscles. They were always so hard and tight, even first thing in the morning, as if he awoke with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Wasn't that meant to be hers to bear?

She worked lightly at first, warming up the flesh with easy touches before going deeper, forcing the muscles to ease and stretch. When she was done with his shoulders, she moved in front of him and worked on his arms, which were always so sore at night, her hands gliding down the length of his muscles, warming and coaxing every part of them. Absorbed in her work, it took a little while before Yvaleth noticed the intent way Cullen's eyes were fixed on her face. “What is it?” she asked.

“You're always so pretty when you're taking care of someone. All the worry leaves your face, and you look so gentle and...you could pose for a statue of Andraste so.”

“They wouldn't be scandalized by Andraste with Dalish _vallaslin_?” Yvaleth joked, even though she was touched. While Andraste might not mean much to her, she knew Cullen was telling her she was like the holiest, most precious thing he knew. She lifted his hand to her lips and kissed his fingertips lightly, one at a time. “I like taking care of you,” she added. “Being with you is just so...good. It almost makes me wish I weren't leaving tomorrow.”

Cullen snorted. “Just what every man wants to hear from his sweetheart, that she _almost_ wishes she didn't have to leave him.”

“You know what I mean!” Yvaleth protested.

“I do,” he reassured her, and leaned forward to give her a kiss. Yvaleth gave him several more in return, light and sweet, then stood up, wiping her hands.

“Besides, you'll have a reprieve from your nagging woman. I don't suppose you'll eat dinner once while I'm gone.”

“I'll eat something,” he promised mildly, rising and giving a mighty stretch.

“Don't make me set Leliana to keep watch over you.”

Cullen blanched slightly. “You wouldn't.”

Yvaleth smiled enigmatically. No bad thing if he imagined neglecting his health would bring down the Nightingale's wrath. “I suppose you'll just have to find out.”

***

“Don't forget scouting logging stands and potential quarries. We need granite—or lime will do. We can't get Skyhold to a proper state without a great many more building materials. Inquisitor, you know how to identify mineral-rich areas?”

Yvaleth lifted an eyebrow at Josephine as she laboriously finished writing _Lumbur + Qwarrys_ in her little notebook. “I come from a clan that makes its own tools, remember? I crafted my first granite mortar and pestle when I was nine.”

Josephine bowed her head. “Speaking of your clan...” She seemed nervous. “We've had another letter from the Keeper of Clan Lavellan. They are being harassed by bandits. It's well beyond what they are able to deal with. They're settled near Wycome to avoid the rifts—the Duke of Wycome is an ally of the Inquisition, perhaps he can provide aid to the Dalish?” She passed the letter to Yvaleth.

Yvaleth went very still, and she felt as though everyone in the room was trying not to look at her. “I see.” A flush of anger bloomed within her as she stared down at the letter. After the first exchange of communication with Keeper Istimaethoriel, there had been no word from Clan Lavellan. No assistance sent when Haven had been razed, nothing—but now they needed help. And the letter began _Da'len_ , infuriating her even more. The word that felt comforting, reassuring even, from Solas, only angered her from the Keeper who had been so ready to send her on a dangerous mission from which she might never return. She was now mistress of magics Istimaethoriel could never dream of, and would _never_ have shared with her. But now that she _was_ powerful, in despite of them, the Keeper spoke tenderly and begged assistance.

And yet the anger had to battle with her instinct to send aid immediately. Who knew better than she how fragile and contingent life was for her people? The bandits were surely human; would she let humans harass the _elvhen_? No matter how unhappy she had been with her clan, no matter how little they valued her, any harm to her people was unacceptable.

“I can send a company of men to deal with this directly. This message has come all the way from the Amaranthine Coast. There may not be time for a diplomatic solution, with all due respect, Ambassador,” Cullen said.

“Is that appropriate?” Yvaleth said stiffly, after taking a few deep breaths to push past her emotional response, as Solas had taught her.

“I beg pardon?” Cullen looked surprised.

“To be using Inquisition forces to solve a problem of personal significance to me. Will the troops not resent being sent on such a task? Especially as they will be forced to fight other humans—fighting their own kind to protect the Dalish. If they are resentful, they will spread their discontent through every tavern from here to Wycome. It will be entirely at counterpurposes with our efforts to recruit.”

There was another silence, and Leliana and Josephine exchanged glances while Cullen fixed worried eyes on Yvaleth's face. It was Cassandra who finally spoke. “If they were any other Dalish clan who had asked aid, would you hesitate?” she asked plainly.

Yvaleth let out a long breath and a tired shrug. “No. I suppose not. But they aren't any other clan. Still, I suppose they shouldn't be...penalized for being my clan.”

“What if we didn't send a full company?” Leliana asked. “For them to be harried by such well-armed and persistent bandits doesn't sound normal. It could even be an effort to draw out Inquisition forces. We could send enough skirmishers to keep them engaged while your people withdraw and my agents find out what's really going on. Large-scale military engagement with bandits and the like is almost always wasteful.”

Yvaleth nodded slowly. “That sounds sensible. Josephine, can you write a letter to Keeper Istimaethoriel for Leliana's agents to deliver? The kind where it's rude, but in a grand way, and they feel bad about themselves, but can't point to anything in particular that's wrong with it?”

“I...can,” Josephine said slowly. “Are you sure that is what you want me to do?”

Yvaleth wanted, very badly, to say yes. But...to use her power and authority to humiliate the Keeper, who after all had not really done anything to hurt Yvaleth? It was childish, a response born of anger and hurt. What would it tell them except that Yvaleth was less mature than the dignity of her position? She rubbed her forehead, shaking her head. “No, I suppose not. No letter then. Just see them safe, and make sure these bandits are dealt with so they aren't troubling some other clan by summer. And Josephine, get me an introduction to some of the nobles in the Denerim area. The next time we need to send troops up to the Free Marches, I don't want them to be coming from Skyhold. They could fight a whole war in the time it would take to march an army up and supplies up there. And if we have defensible positions in other areas, we can't be so badly hurt by another focused attack.” She was sketching with her finger on the map, and when she looked up, she was perplexed to see Cassandra smiling. “What?” Yvaleth asked, a little defensively.

Cassandra shook her head, still smiling. “Nothing, Inquisitor. Commander Cullen, do you have any input?”

“When you're scouting spots, keep an eye open for locals who know the area and can be of help. I'll work on potential assignments and,” Cullen sighed, “keep trying to cultivate leadership among the officers we've got. Maker help me.”

“Let's hope,” Yvaleth said lightly, making another misspelled entry in her notebook. “All right, what else?”

***

“I hate this,” Sera grumbled, taking a long pull from her flask.

“Hate _what_?” Cassandra asked, exasperated. “We aren't doing anything.” Yvaleth was puzzling over one of the Tevinter astrariums, making minute adjustments as she lined up the stars.

“Exactly! And we're not doing anything in the dark an' the cold, like, while she sits there bein' elfy.”

“They're Tevinter relics, not elven,” Dorian interposed. “Though, loath as I am to agree even slightly with Sera, I do wish you'd let me speed the whole business up a bit. We'll break our necks getting back to camp.” He glanced at Solas, who had insisted Yvaleth decode the artifacts on her own, as he said this.

“Ah, but look at her face,” Solas said mildly.

Cassandra looked over at Yvaleth. “She appears in pain,” she replied dubiously.

“And how do you know when your soldiers have trained adequately for the day?”

“Usually when they are too sore to...” Cassandra trailed off, nodding. “Ah. I see.”

“She hasn't time to study properly when we're traveling. It's a mistake to train a mage's fighting ability without including an intellectual component. A brutish mage hurling about gobs of fire is the last thing anyone needs.”

“Is that an insult?” Dorian wondered.

It was too dark to see Solas's smile, but they could all hear it. “Perish the thought. The elegance of your incendiaries is beyond reproach—though one could wish you'd remember that forests are flammable.”

“We put it out. I did the trees a service, cleaning out a bit of dead wood. Dorian the forester. No need to thank me.”

No one did. “She's resetting it _again_ ,” Sera groaned after a long series of clicks from the astrarium.

Yvaleth's head popped up. “I _can_ hear you when you wail like a bobcat. It doesn't exactly make things go faster. Though I have to admit, this one has me stumped. I can see it's a man, but I don't know what he's carrying.”

“Come, Inquisitor, think. What do Tevinters like?” Dorian offered.

“I don't know. Slaves?” There was a pause, then, “Ohhh...” followed by a rapid series of clicks and a final, definitive thunk. Then Yvaleth approached them, scowling. “Who would do want to memorialize that in _stars_?”

Dorian lit a torch with an exaggeratedly precise fire spell, raising his eyebrows at Solas as if to say 'See?'. “Virtually everyone of my acquaintance? Why do you think I joined the Inquisition? It wasn't the delightfully balmy weather of the Frostbacks.”

Sera rose and hurried to follow Dorian, but Cassandra, eyeing her wobbly gait, stooped and pulled the archer over her shoulder. “Whatcha doin?” Sera demanded. “You said you din't like girls—change yer mind?”

“I don't like burying dead bodies,” Cassandra replied, deadpan, “and I wouldn't trust you to clamber down a sand dune right now. Perhaps you could save the drinking for camp next time?” She picked her way down the rocks, seemingly entirely untroubled by her burden.

“I _would_ 'ave,” Sera pouted, “but we couldn't _go_ to camp cause Yvally was _fiddlin_ ', an' it's _cold_.” Her periodic emphases were improved with swats on Cassandra's muscular backside.

“Stop molesting the Seeker,” Yvaleth, who was right behind them, scolded.

“You had yer chance!” Sera twisted her head horribly in an effort to leer at the Inquisitor.

“I am never letting Varric go anywhere again,” Yvaleth whispered over her shoulder to Solas, who brought up the rear with a second torch. In reply, she heard only soft laughter, and after a moment, she joined it. As tired as she was, just then she wouldn't have traded picking her way down a rocky hill in the dark with her friends for anything in the world.

***

Yvaleth held a lantern in one hand and her little notebook in the other. “Still no idea what's going on with the Wardens, but we'll look for that Blackwall fellow on our way back through the Hinterlands. I suppose no Wardens is theoretically better news than lots of them, means that thing we saw _isn't_ an archdemon, no Blight, but still. And, let's see, I left the antivenom Scout Harding asked for on the table, and we've sent back a load of those funny shards for the researcher...” she mumbled to no one in particular. Finally, with a loud sigh, she snapped the notebook shut and said, “Yes, I think we can move on tomorrow. And if Scout Harding has any kind of message for me before then...”

“Tell her you're dead?” Iron Bull was sitting by the fire with Dorian—they had left the rest of the party at a camp to the south to oversee the newly-recruited Blades of Hessarian. He gave a big, showy stretch, spreading out his long arms.

“Mmhmm. So glad you're with us. Dorian giggles when he lies.”

“I don't!” Dorian protested, deeply offended. Yvaleth waited, eyebrow raised, and he tittered slightly. “Only when they're funny lies! I told Alexius _dozens_ of boring lies, and he believed them all.”

“Then let's just say I don't trust your sense of humor. Have a good night, gentlemen. I'm going to meditate and pass out.”

“Have fun, boss,” Bull said cheerfully, but when Yvaleth had settled herself out of earshot, he shook his head and refilled his tankard and then Dorian's. “Never were greater charms wasted on a more oblivious woman.”

“Are the Ben-Hassrath spies that bad? She's taken, you know.”

Bull narrowed his eyes. “Former Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition forces, previously of Kirkwall, previously of Kinloch. Give me a little credit. I know she's taken, but she's supposed to at least _think_ about it, the big scary Qunari and the cute little elf. She's got no imagination.”

“I think you'll find Commander Cullen has her imagination quite captivated as well,” Dorian smirked. He had been the recipient of a few shy confidences from Yvaleth that had convinced him Cullen wasn't quite so squeaky clean as he'd supposed. “Apparently _you're_ thinking about it. Is that encouraged by the Qun?”

Bull shrugged. “'A self of suffering brings only suffering to the world,'” he quoted. “Have you ever tried chastity?”

“Not voluntarily,” Dorian replied. “I take your point. So what else have your spies told you? Anything about me?”

“Mmm, something about a poncy Tevinter mage, yeah. Is there another one?” Bull poured himself another drink. “Surprised she came up here without the other elf. I hear he never leaves her side.”

“You've heard quite a lot,” Dorian said sharply. “If you hurt her, I will personally burn you alive and enslave your skeleton to serve as my valet.” He smiled thinly. “And yes, I can do that.”

“You lose all the good parts that way,” Bull taunted, flexing his muscles ostentatiously.

“As if I would be interested in someone so...cocky and...and...” A little, involuntary titter escaped Dorian.

“Did you just giggle?”

Dorian shook his head, keeping his lips closely pressed together. “I'm going to meditate with the Inquisitor.”

“Sure,” Bull said, grinning as Dorian stalked away from the fire. “But I didn't hear your answer—did you giggle?”

“No!” Dorian threw over his shoulder, unable to repress the unsteadiness of his voice and trying to disguise it with a cough.

“Uh huh.” Bull took another long drink. At least someone had a good imagination.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've put the recruitment of Blackwall a lot later than it usually occurs mostly because, if he was there during the attack on Haven, when they were assuming an archdemon was involved, wouldn't they have been like, "Welp, get out there, Blackwall, this is what you're for!"? (Okay, and also because I forget about him sometimes.)


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke comes to Skyhold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes more in-game conversations than usual. I've tweaked, streamlined and changed emphases to suit my own purposes, so be warned!

Cullen gritted his teeth and clenched his fist. Three days. Three days till Yvaleth was due back. He couldn't let her see him like this—and he couldn't do the one thing that would make sure she didn't. He hadn't had an attack this bad since before he met her. She'd never had to see what a wreck of a man he was deep in the throes of withdrawal.

He'd thought he was done with the worst of it. The pain and spasms had become infrequent, usually more background noise than anything else. He had more than enough work to distract him from the siren call of the blue vial. But now he couldn't think of anything else. He dug his short fingernails into his palms, welcoming the prick of pain that was, at least, under his control when nothing else was.

There was a knock on the door, and Cullen forced himself to sit up straight. “Come in,” he called, smoothing back his hair reflexively. Then he froze as Marian Hawke walked into the room.

“Good afternoon, Ser Cullen,” she said in that rich, smoky voice.

“I...” Cullen began looking around, baffled. First at his office—no, it was still the drafty spot on top of the ramparts of Skyhold, not his snug office in Kirkwall. Then he cast a fearful look at his desk drawer. Had he actually _taken_ the lyrium and slipped into a hallucination from being so unused?

“Relax,” Hawke said. “It's not a time slip, or a dream, or whatever weird scenario you're imagining. Varric thought I ought to come compare notes with the Inquisitor.” She cocked her head. “Mind, you look awful. If you think I have two heads or something, we should probably call a medic. Are you running a fever?”

“I'm fine,” Cullen gritted out. “And please don't suggest such an awful thing. You're enough trouble with one.”

Hawke lifted one straight black eyebrow and came forward to perch familiarly on the edge of his desk. “There's gratitude for you.”

“Gratitude? You started a bloody war, Hawke!” Cullen knew that wasn't particularly fair, but he wasn't in a mood to be just and considerate.

“Anders started a war. I cleaned up a mess. Your mess, if I hadn't. If the Templars had kept their house clean, it would never have happened.” Hawke's face went hard when she spoke Anders' name.

Cullen took a long, deep breath. “The Inquisitor isn't back yet. I'm sure the Ambassador can find you lodgings until her return.”

“Lady Montilyet has been most gracious. I came to see you. And, seriously, you look like a mess, Cullen.”

He groaned. If Hawke could tell he was suffering, there was no way in hell he'd be able to hide his condition from Yvaleth. “Fine. You've seen me. I was very surprised, and I made a funny face. Are you done now?” He batted away her hand as she tried to reach for his forehead. “I'm _fine_ , Hawke.”

“If that's what fine looks like, the years haven't been kind to you,” Hawke said, but she let the matter drop.

“They haven't been particularly kind years,” Cullen sighed. “What do you hear from Carver?”

“He's with Aveline. She had to get him out of Kirkwall—the templars there are mad on some kind of red lyrium. Shall I send your regards?”

Cullen snorted. “Your little brother may possibly hold the position of most annoying recruit I ever had to train.”

Hawke threw back her head and laughed long and loud. “Oh, I'll tell him you said that someday. He always did want to distinguish himself. Out of my shadow at last!”

He couldn't help relaxing into a grin. He'd never really disliked Hawke, much as he'd made a show of it. There was something about the way she used to swagger around the Gallows, all but daring him to try taking her in, that made him proud in a strange, fierce way. Now that he was no longer a templar, he could admit that he'd never wanted to see Marian Hawke caged up in the Circle.

Now that he was no longer a templar, he began to think no one should have been kept in those Circles.

“And what about you? I understand Cassandra was turning over every stone and interrogating every sexy pirate in the Marches to try and find you a little while back.”

“Mmm, that sounds fun. I was enjoying the hospitality of Starkhaven, if you can call fried ham and eggs morning, noon and night that. Oh, and fried pudding. They fry _everything_.”

“Starkhaven?” Cullen looked perplexed for a moment, then he remembered. “So Sebastian went back after all? I thought he'd never make up his mind.”

“Having one's home blown up provides a certain clarity,” Hawke observed. “Yes, he's back on his throne, busy securing his line.”

“Should I be calling you Princess, then? I remember how he used to look at you.”

Hawke laughed, but she blushed a little too. “He asked, but I think only to appease his conscience for all those lustful thoughts back in Kirkwall. He wound up falling madly in love with a common girl he met out hunting, which was at least marginally better than pouring magic directly into the bloodline. She's adorable, plump as a partridge. I'm godmother to their twins, if you can believe it.”

There was something forced in the levity with which Hawke spoke that made Cullen think she hadn't laughed Sebastian off quite so easily as she pretended.

“Anyway,” Hawke hurried on, “that's why I'm actually here. I have a formal offer of alliance from Sebastian that I gave Lady Montilyet, and he's made a small commitment of troops for any Inquisition engagements in the Marches. He'd probably do more, but he's making restoring Kirkwall a pet project.”

That was welcome news. It would take them some time to establish a garrison in the North, and the meantime, the Marches might as well be inaccessible to them. “I don't suppose he could spare any trained officers? Other than templars, I'm mostly working with kids fresh off the farm. And I'm loath to create a hierarchy of former templars. We're only just starting to see light on this bloody war, and it's hard enough keeping peace between the mages and templars _here_ without filling the officer ranks with templars.”

“Ask—I'm sure he'd like to help. He was quite enraptured with Varric's tales of your Inquisitor. His wife only just discouraged him from planning a pilgrimage to see her.”

Cullen snorted. “Oh, she'd love that. She tolerates being the 'Herald of Andraste,' but just barely.”

“So you've fallen prey to the wiles of an infidel as well as an apostate,” Hawke teased.

He could feel himself blushing, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “She's not an infidel, she's just—well, Dalish.” Cullen shrugged. “She prays to her gods, and I pray to mine.”

“I can't wait to meet her. Truly.”

A little smile crossed Cullen's face. “She'll like that. But no telling her embarrassing stories!”

“Like how you had to beg me to interrogate the ladies of the Blooming Rose because they were too scar—”

“Yes, like that,” Cullen cut her off, trying not to blush any more than he already was. “Or...how I said mages weren't people,” he added, forcing himself to look Hawke in the eye. “I'm sorry for that, Marian.”

“And I'm sorry my lover blew up the Chantry,” Hawke sighed. “We've both made our mistakes, and our amends, as best we can.” Her hand moved reflexively, her thumb rubbing against her fingers.

Bad mistakes and harsh amends. Hawke had helped him make his, destroying the monstrosity Meredith had become. No one had helped her with hers—only the dagger she'd thrust in Anders' back. But that wasn't the whole of it. Cullen was still making amends with every spasm and pain, and Hawke with her loneliness. Looking at her, Cullen couldn't help thinking he'd gotten off easy.

***

“Varric!” Yvaleth tumbled off her hart and pulled the dwarf into a tight embrace, which she improved with a few haphazard kisses on top of his head.

Varric was blushing and laughing. “Shucks, Firefly, glad to see me?” He reached up to pat her shoulder a little awkwardly.

“You have no idea. I'm so glad you're back.” It was true even beyond her ardent desire to never have Sera as a traveling companion again. Varric had been one of her first friends after the explosion at the Conclave, and in some ways he was her truest, apart from Cullen. Solas was her teacher and mentor, but he was also an ancient and inexplicable being. Varric was, she ardently hoped, exactly what he seemed.

Yvaleth straightened up, looking around. “Where's Cullen?” She absently greeted Josephine and Leliana, kissing their soft cheeks and squeezing their hands.

Varric shrugged. “Dunno. I came down when I heard the horns blowing. I haven't seen Curly.”

Leliana leaned in to murmur so only Yvaleth could hear. “He hasn't been very well for the past week.”

Yvaleth bit her lip, then turned to Cassandra. “You'll see everyone settled?” It ought to be her, welcoming the Iron Bull, his Chargers and Blackwall to Skyhold, but if Cullen hadn't come down at the horn blast, then he was worse than “not very well.”

Cassandra nodded, understanding immediately as Yvaleth had known she would. “Of course. Go.” She took Enansal's reins from Yvaleth's hand.

Yvaleth pressed Cassandra's hand gratefully and strode out of the stableyard, leaping up the steps to the ramparts two at a time. She forced herself to keep to a walk once she gained the ramparts, not wanting to worry anyone with the sight of the Inquisitor running like a panicked girl. But she was still out of breath when she arrived in Cullen's office.

And he was nowhere to be seen. “Cullen?” she called. There was a low sound from overhead. Yvaleth spied a ladder that was new since she had left and scrambled up it, giving a little, pained cry when her head came level with the loft and she saw Cullen on the floor, wearing only half his armor. She nearly fell, her foot missing a rung in her panicked climbing, but she caught her elbows on the floor and levered herself up. “Cullen...”

“Yv'leth...” Cullen groaned. “Sorry, so sorry...” His cheek was burning hot against her hand, and he was shivering violently. This wasn't just another attack—he was seriously ill.

With that realization, Yvaleth's training kicked in, overtaking her fear. She began examining him with professional care, looking into his eyes, feeling his glands, and forcing his jaw open so she could look at his tongue. His fever was dangerously high, and he was dehydrated. “Cullen,” she said calmly. “I have to use magic, Cullen, do you understand?” His head shook violently, and she said, “I won't hurt you. It's all right. It's me, Cullen.” His consent was only incidental—Yvaleth was going to work the spell anyway, but it would take better if he didn't try to resist.

Either he understood, or he was too worn out to protest further; it would have to do. Yvaleth laid his head gently back on the floor and stood to draw her staff. She swept a wide circle around them in the air to contain the healing magics, then cast cleansing aura, letting her mind fall into the clear, serene space of meditation. All her anxiety was laid aside as she focused on channeling her energy into pure healing. A glow surrounded her form and Cullen's, and she could see the illness within him as blackness, sticky hot and trying to resist her magic. She knelt, holding her hands over Cullen and channeling the strength of her spell into him in a wave of healing energy. Her hands moved slowly, tracing wards and gestures so well known they required no thought at all.

Finally, the blackness dispersed, and Yvaleth sent it forth with a short, sharp burst of light. Then she lowered the circle, sinking back on her heels and closing her eyes in exhaustion. “All right,” she whispered wearily. “All right.”

They were both still there in the exact same positions when Leliana came up the ladder half an hour later. “Inquisitor? Are you all right?”

“I—yes, of course,” Yvaleth muttered. “We're fine.”

Leliana touched her cheek. “You're cold. What's happened? He hasn't been well, but I didn't think he was actually ill...”

“Well, he was. And of course I'm cold, some idiot decided to sleep in a room with a hole in the roof.” Yvaleth opened her eyes, still exhausted and, under the surface of her fatigue, furious. “He could use some water. He's weak, still.”

Leliana worked quickly, finding the pitcher half full of clean water and holding Cullen's head up so he could drink from it. Then she brought it to Yvaleth and held the pitcher steady when Yvaleth's hands trembled too hard to grip it.

“I am going to kill him,” Yvaleth groaned after she finished drinking.

“You've put an awful lot of work into him for that,” Leliana noted, smiling wryly.

“I want him awake when I do it.” Yvaleth pushed up to her feet, a little unsteadily. “Help me get him in bed?”

Leliana's “help” was more along the lines of carrying Cullen's full weight after she had stripped off his armor, and Yvaleth climbed into the bed after, snuggling up against Cullen's unconscious body. “He should have some beef tea, if you can...I'm going to take a nap, Leliana. Can I take a nap?”

“Of course you can,” Leliana said, laughing softly and leaning over to brush a lock of hair out of Yvaleth's face. “When you wake up, we'll kill him together.”

“Thanks, Lel...hmm...” And with that, Yvaleth closed her eyes and sank into a deep sleep.

***

By the next day, Cullen was well enough to get out of bed, and Yvaleth left him alone with curt orders not to tire himself out. She still hadn't expressed her anger, and Cullen was moodily silent. It was hardly the welcome home she'd fantasized of during the long weeks away. He couldn't have helped being ill, of course—the attack must have weakened his system so that it couldn't fight off the fever. But to try and just struggle through instead of asking for help... What had he thought he was doing? Dying alone in the cold just to demonstrate that he was too stupid to ask for healing?

Yvaleth spent most of the rest of the day sorting through correspondence with Josephine and then working with Dorian, Fiona and the new researcher, Helisma, on some of the items she'd found on the trip. It was late afternoon when she finally let Varric lead her up the ramparts to talk to Hawke.

She found a woman, younger than she'd expected, with a mop of unruly black hair and thick dark brows. Beautiful, despite the lack of delicacy in her futures, with a strong, stubborn jaw and clear gray eyes. “So you're the Inquisitor,” Hawke said. “Varric's made me almost jealous with his talk about you.”

“The feeling is mutual—barring the _almost_. I was expecting you to be seven feet tall,” Yvaleth returned with a tight smile.

“Now, ladies, no need to fight over your favorite fella,” Varric laughed. Then he went sober. “Hawke and I fought Corypheus the last time. He was using the red lyrium to control Grey Wardens...”

Yvaleth tapped her finger against her lips. “We found one of the Wardens in the Hinterlands. He hasn't said anything about the lyrium—didn't really seem to know much about Corypheus either. But I think maybe he's been cut off from the other Wardens for some time. He's very tight-lipped.”

“The red lyrium's also enslaved quite a few of the templars,” Hawke put in. “I gather you've seen the effects firsthand. I have a friend among the Wardens, Ser Stroud. He's reliable, for an Orlesian. He thinks some kind of corruption is at work in the ranks. He's gone into hiding.”

Yvaleth nodded and leaned back against the ramparts, sighing. “Venatori, Red Templars and now the Grey Wardens. Is there anyone in Thedas Corypheus _isn't_ corrupting to turn against me?” She stared down at the palm of her hand. “At this rate, I'm starting to hope I _was_ sent by Andraste. At least with divine help we might stand a chance.”

“Best I can do is introduce you to Stroud. My influence has waned a bit since the glory days Varric likes to tell stories about.” Hawke shrugged and gave a cynical smile.

“I'm grateful,” Yvaleth said quickly. “Sorry.”

“Don't be. I'm just glad it's you and not me sorting this mess out.” Hawke gave Varric a long, complicated look that Yvaleth couldn't quite parse, then said, “You've got good people, I can tell. If they'll stand by you when the world comes falling down, that's all you can ask. That's all you'll need.”

***

“You _lied_! You knew where she was all along!”

Yvaleth had been walking around Skyhold, noting the improvements, speaking to new staff, but when she heard Cassandra's voice ringing out in that tone, she ducked into the dusty room to follow the sound. That tone meant blood was about to be shed. She entered just in time to see Varric escape Cassandra's hold, and duck a punch.

“Stop!” Yvaleth hadn't known her voice could sound like that, so commanding. But seeing Cassandra's capacity for violence, one she was intimately familiar with, turned against one of their allies made her blood run cold, and for a moment, she could swear she felt cold steel pressed against her throat.

“He knew where Hawke was!” Cassandra shouted. “I needed her to lead the Inquisition, and he lied to me! Spun me false tales that I believed like a fool!”

“You _have_ somebody to lead the Inquisition,” Varric threw back.

“But Hawke could have been there at the Conclave. She could have...”

“She could have died right alongside the Divine,” Varric said dourly. “It's done, Cassandra. Hawke's here to help now, and you have the Inquisitor you want.”

“Maybe,” Yvaleth muttered, entirely nonplussed. Maybe Cassandra was only thinking of the Conclave and Justinia's death...or maybe she was wishing she could still change her mind.

“Inquisitor, Varric is a liar, and a snake. He cannot be trusted.”

“I'd like to note you had me in manacles and stabbed my book while interrogating me. Was that supposed to make me trust _you_? Why should I hand Hawke over so you bastards could drag her through the whole mess again?”

“Enough,” Yvaleth snapped. “If Varric is too loyal to his friends, that's probably the nicest fault I can attribute to any of us. What's done is done. Varric...just go. Let me deal with this.” Like she had to deal with everything, it seemed like. It wasn't enough to mend the rifts, track down missing scouts, and have her hall filled with Orlesian strangers, she was also responsible for managing everybody's moods, smoothing quarrels and piqued feelings. She had Mother Giselle trying to convince her to trick Dorian into some kind of meeting with his father, and Josephine dropping hints about “making an appearance” to some Val Royeaux nobleman to call off a guild of assassins.

Yvaleth waited until Varric was gone, and then she turned back to Cassandra. “I won't have this,” she said in a low, strained voice. “I won't have you laying hands on any of our people. That's an order, do you understand?” It was the first time she had ever given Cassandra anything approaching a direct order.

Cassandra dropped onto a bench and rested her head in her hands. “I understand, Inquisitor.”

“Good.” Yvaleth drew a deep breath, and tempting as it was to just leave the whole mess, she couldn't. She sat down opposite Cassandra. “I never imagined I was your first choice for Inquisitor—I'm still not sure why you gave me this position, except perhaps in desperation. But if you have regrets, I'm the person to discuss them with. You can't go back and make things happen differently. None of us can.”

Cassandra looked up, seemingly startled by Yvaleth's words. “I did not say I had regrets!”

“No, you just tried to hit Varric because he didn't help you make Hawke Inqusitor. Forgive me if I don't understand how that reflects contentment with the current order.” Yvaleth tried to keep her tone calm, but it was hard. Didn't she think every day how ill suited she was to this position, how much better someone else would have been? Didn't she work herself to the bone trying to do what was expected, to be the person they needed?

Cassandra's eyes dropped for a moment in shame, and then she took in a long, shaky breath. “It's not like that. But to know how badly I failed in my duty to the Most Holy, how I believed his lies—“

“I know you'll find this hard to believe,” Yvaleth said wryly. “But most people don't feel warm and helpful toward the person who's got them chained for interrogation.”

“You told me the truth,” Cassandra said, sounding moody.

“I was too confused to lie,” Yvaleth pointed out. “If I'd had an extra half hour to think it out, who knows what I might have come up with for you.”

Cassandra shook her head, disbelieving. “I'm being a fool again anyway. Hawke probably would have refused the duty. And...perhaps the Maker would not have sent us you.”

“I'm sure the Maker had a dozen other young fools ready to hand,” Yvaleth returned curtly, still too hurt to accept Cassandra's words. She felt tired—not physically, but emotionally. She was still angry with Cullen and unsure how to deal with it, still worried about the possibility of having to fight the Grey Wardens, and still unsettled from seeing Cassandra try to hit Varric.

“You are angry with me. I suppose you should be.”

Yvaleth huffed out a breath, working hard to keep it from breaking into a sob. “I don't know. Does it matter? Corypheus wants to destroy us, and then probably the whole world. Does anyone's anger matter against that? We do what we must.”

“I did not mean--” Cassandra stopped, shaking her head. “This is why, you know.”

“Why what?”

“Why I knew that I must not be Inquisitor. Why I knew you would do a better job. I am too brash, too cold. I can command respect, but I could never win hearts as you do. I would hurt people, as I have hurt my friend today, and I would never know how to make it right. You are so much more than I.”

The words felt like a hand squeezing Yvaleth's heart, and she blinked hard, keeping back the tears. “I just wish I was the one you wanted. I wish...”

“Inquisitor—Yvaleth. You are the one I needed. The one we all need.” Cassandra held out her strong, scarred hand, palm up.

After a moment's hesitation, Yvaleth took it, but she didn't speak. She didn't know what to say. “How is Cullen?” Cassandra continued.

“Fine,” Yvaleth answered listlessly. “Or well enough. I healed him last night and broke the fever completely. Wore myself out doing it. Assuming he didn't decide to do a ten-mile pack march today, he should be fine.”

“We have a saying, in Nevarra. When the hearth is well, all is well. Go tend your hearth, Yvaleth. The rest is nothing.”

Yvaleth closed her eyes, wincing slightly. After all her walking and brooding, she still had no idea what to say to Cullen, how to make him understand how frustrated she was. But she nodded, squeezed Cassandra's hand, and stood up. “I'll do my best. Thank you.”

Cassandra rose too. “As will I. Thank you, Inquisitor.”

***

Cullen wasn't in his office, and on Yvaleth's way back to her quarters, Josephine waylaid her to speak to various visitors, so that it was late evening when she was finally able to escape social niceties and flee to her quarters. She hadn't actually been in them since she'd returned to Skyhold, since she'd stayed with Cullen the night before and been too busy to visit them that day.

The room had been thoroughly improved, and now boasted actual furniture: a bed, a chair and desk (already piled high with work, Yvaleth was nonplussed to see), a wardrobe, and a sofa. The windows had glass in them now, instead of being boarded over. And most of all, the room was improved by the blond man sitting on a stool in front of the fire. He rose when she came in, looking sheepish. “I thought I'd try coming to you when we have problems instead of hiding like a coward for once. I hope that's all right.”

“Of course it's all right. You're always welcome here.” Yvaleth looked around. “Mind, it's so grand now I'm not sure _I_ feel welcome.”

Cullen shrugged slightly. “You were away, and...well, there's no protocol for Inquisitor's consort. Staying in here would have felt too much like putting myself above everyone.”

“I understand,” Yvaleth sighed. She sank down on the sofa. “Cullen, I need to talk to you as two people. As the Inquisitor, and as your love. Can we do that?”

“Of course.” Cullen remained standing, and indeed pulled himself up to attention, and Yvaleth gathered he was waiting for her to address him as the Inquisitor.

“If someone treated the horses in our stables as badly as you treat yourself, I'd be furious. If they treated Enansal so badly, I would summon a boulder from the Fade and drop it on their heads. And you are more valuable to the Inquisition than any mount. You aren't a boy of twenty anymore, Cullen, and you haven't the stamina of one. I'm not angry at you for having an attack, or even for falling ill—though I suspect neither would have been so severe if you'd been looking after yourself or at least sleeping in a room with a proper roof. But not seeking healing when you were so ill...what if there had been an enemy attack? Cassandra and I were away. Leliana would have had to order the troops all on her own, and she wouldn't have even _known_ she needed to until she found you passed out on the floor!”

Cullen's face went gradually whiter as she spoke, and when she stopped, he said, “You're right, Inquisitor, I take full responsibility for my unforgivable recklessness. If you wish it, I will resign directly.”

Yvaleth rolled her eyes. “How would that help? Cassandra is the only one who could do even half what you do, and I need her with me. I need you. I need you in good condition, with sense enough to eat three meals a day and sleep at night. Is that so impossible?”

“No, Inquisitor. I understand.” Cullen's eyes were fixed on the floor like a recruit being scolded, and Yvaleth absolutely hated this. It was worse even than reproving Cassandra had been. And having to do it twice in one day made her want to hide in her new big bed and never come out.

Yvaleth sighed and patted the sofa beside her. “Then come here and let me speak to you as a woman.”

Cullen sat down, close but not touching, still not looking at her. Yvaleth touched his cheek lightly, making him turn to her. “This isn't fair to me, Cullen,” she said softly. “I...I love you so much, and I have wanted so badly to give you my whole self, to be completely yours, resting in your strength. But how can I trust you with all that I am when I cannot trust you to take care of the one thing I treasure most?”

If possible, Cullen looked even more unhappy at this than he had when she was dressing him down as a superior. “I know I've failed you doubly. I...I think I forgot that to be strong for you, I have to be strong for myself too. I've always been too wrapped up in my work—in Kirkwall they used to tease that I 'ate, slept, drank and pissed Templar duty.' And now that I have so much more responsibility...and that it's _you_ I'm responsible to, every moment taken away from work seems disloyal. I've been cursing my weakness and refusing to accept it, which only made matters worse. I'm so sorry, Yvaleth. I never wanted to fail you: not as a Commander, and not as a man. It won't happen again.”

Yvaleth let out a long breath and nodded, then moved closer to Cullen, laying her head on his shoulder. “How are you feeling today?” she said softly.

“Better,” he said carefully, wrapping his arm around her and leaning back. “Too much better. I—I know I left you little choice, but I wish you hadn't used magic. I can still feel it in my body. I've been struggling with wanting the lyrium, and this...it doesn't help.”

Yvaleth closed her eyes. “I'm sorry, Cullen. It's why I've never used magic on you before. I restocked some of my herbs on the trip, and I'll give you some more witherstalk root, though it's not as good as that I had gathered. I wish this weren't so hard for you.”

“I'm not sure I do. Do—do the Dalish have any concept of penance?”

“Not exactly, though I know the word. We make amends, and for very great crimes there are rites of purification that are not dissimilar. One who violated Mythal's great prohibitions against looking with lust upon children might have to bathe in a midwinter stream to cleanse himself of the impurities. Like that?”

“Yes. I've done penance for my failures ever since the night I saw what Knight-Commander Meredith had become. All the ways I had failed. Through prayer, through fasting...but most of all, through this. Through bearing the hunger for lyrium and mastering it. Seeing Hawke again—well, it made me think I'd gotten off easily. You know what she did, after Anders started the mage-templar war?”

Yvaleth tried to remember from Varric's stories. “I know he was killed...”

“She killed him. With her own dagger. They were lovers, but he used her to further his vengeance—his 'justice.' She might have forgiven the crime itself, but not that betrayal.” Cullen pressed his face into her hair. “It made me so grateful for you. That I found you.”

“I'm grateful too,” Yvaleth whispered, feeling her tense muscles finally begin to relax. “I missed you so much, Cullen. I think that's part of why I was so angry. Just...I just wanted this. This is all I want, forever.”

He kissed her forehead. “Will you give me your trust once more, Yvaleth, little as I have done to deserve it? Will you let me welcome you home as I had wished to?”

Yvaleth smiled up at him and said, very deliberately. “Yes, Cullen. Yes.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, unshockingly, will be a spicy one! Thanks as always to all those who've left comments and kudos to encourage me. Y'all are wonderful. Also, I am now on Tumblr at dreamslikedragons. Fair warning, I've done literally nothing with my blog yet, but I will try and fix that over time. Maybe some cozy holiday drabbles--I'm always a sucker for that kind of thing!


	18. 18: NSFW and light Dom/sub content

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen and Yvaleth make love

Cullen scooped Yvaleth up off the sofa, making her squeal with laughter, and carried her to the bed. “It's so big we could fit the whole war council in here,” he teased.

“Let's try making love first before we go inviting other women to join our bed, hmm?” Yvaleth pulled him down after her, unwilling to be separated from his warmth for even a moment.

“You may have a point.” Cullen kissed her, and Yvaleth made a little noise as he leaned over her, letting some of his weight rest on her. “I'm sorry, am I hurting you?” he asked, pushing further up onto his strong arms.

She shook her head. “I—I like that,” she admitted shyly. “Feels safe.”

“You are safe, little dove,” he whispered, pressing soft kisses to her face. “Home in your nest, safe in my arms.” His lips found hers again, and Yvaleth sighed with pleasure into the kiss, opening her mouth to tangle her tongue with his. It had been too long, far too long, and whereas before Yvaleth had been less inclined to think about sensual matters, she had spent the past weeks replaying every kiss, every touch, and fantasizing about how they would finally be together on her return.

His lips drifted down to nip at her jaw, and he asked, “Did you take your pleasure while you were gone, sweeting?”

“N-no,” she said, blushing. “I hardly had a chance, sharing a tent with Cassandra and Sera!”

“Good,” he murmured, kissing his way down her neck. “I want to be the one who gives you pleasure. The one who makes you cry out and shudder. Mine,” he added, giving a slightly sharper bite just above her collarbone.

“Yours,” she agreed breathlessly, and everything inside her seemed to have turned to fire at that single word. “Oh, Cullen, yours, please...”

Cullen sat back on his knees and helped Yvaleth sit enough so she could be divested of her fitted doublet and soft shirt. She tugged impatiently at his tunic, wanting badly to feel his skin against hers, and soon they were both entirely naked, clothes tossed here and there. Then Cullen braced Yvaleth with his big hands on her lower back, urging her to arch back. She shivered a little at the wantonness of presenting her bare breasts so, and she could feel her nipples tighten and peak from desire.

Cullen fell upon her breasts like a starving man, kissing, sucking and licking while Yvaleth writhed under his ardent lips. He sucked one nipple hard through his teeth, and she gave a sharp cry, one hand gripping at the coverlet while the other twisted in his hair. She felt the pressure of his mouth on her breast lessen and gasped out, “Yes. Yes, Cullen, please,” to preempt any careful, loving inquiry, pressing his head back toward her nipple desperately.

He gave a soft hum of laughter that made Yvaleth shiver, then began teasing her nipples with his teeth—never too hard, but there was an edge of pain beneath the pleasure that made Yvaleth moan. She had never thought about taking pleasure in pain: she knew some did, but she was so inexperienced that she was learning with each kiss and touch. She wriggled her legs further apart, trying to press against Cullen's thigh, but his hands at her waist held her firmly in place, keeping her from satisfying her desire.

“Not like that,” Cullen said in a low rumble. “You're going to come on my mouth like a good girl, aren't you, darling?” He lifted his head, surveying her with hot amber eyes.

She nodded feverishly. Anything. If it had been anyone other than Cullen, the need to please that gripped her at such times would have felt terrifying. She would do anything to make him smile and praise her with sweet words, to stay in this precious space where she only had to think of her body and his, only had to obey her beloved. Here there were no hard decisions, no emotional demands that left her drained, only love and pleasure.

He pushed her down onto her back, spreading her legs wide and urging her to drape them over his broad shoulders. “Mmm...you're so wet for me,” he growled, surveying the swollen, needy flesh drenched in her slick juices.

Yvaleth blushed at that, her hands coming up to hide her face, but Cullen said, “No,” firmly, and then, “Hands above your head, sweetheart. I want to see your face.”

She gave a little, embarrassed whine, but obeyed, clasping her hands above her head. “Yes, Cullen,” she whispered.

Cullen smiled at her then, his face awash with tenderness and open admiration. “So beautiful,” he praised, and then he lowered his head, licking up the length of her cleft and swirling his tongue around the hood of her clit. She jerked, and he murmured, “Just relax,” repeating the gesture, slow and firm, lapping up the juices that were soaking her.

Yvaleth let her head fall back, eyes closed, struggling not to grind against his mouth. Her thighs shivered and flexed, and she dug her heels into his back, reveling in the muscular strength of his body. He was so _solid_ , Cullen, so strong and alive. Big enough for her to disappear in his arms, and so tender she couldn't even imagine fear when he was near.

Cullen began focusing on her clit, lavishing attention on the swollen, needy bud of her desire. At the same time, he worked two fingers slowly into her until he was fucking her with them in deep thrusts, his pace languid so that she had time to gasp and shift every time he filled her, savoring the pleasure to its fullest. “So sweet,” he groaned, pausing to kiss her thigh. “My honey flower.” Then he returned to his task with endless patience, shifting between firm and teasingly light touches until Yvaleth couldn't help bucking up into his mouth, desperate for more.

“Please. Please, Cullen.” Yvaleth's voice was broken with desire, and it trailed into a pleased groan as Cullen added another finger and increased his pace, even while he continued to suckle at her swollen clit with ardent desire. He scraped his teeth lightly across the sensitive bud, and Yvaleth fell apart, all the need coiling within her tightening until she let out a fierce shriek, her head falling back and hands twisting together. Her hips arched up as she spasmed over and over, while Cullen drank every drop of her nectar.

Finally, Cullen gently drew her thighs off his shoulders and crawled up to pull her in his arms. He kissed her mouth hard, letting her taste herself on him. “ _Arlath ma_ ,” Yvaleth moaned when their lips parted. “ _Ar ame ma, vhenan_.”

Cullen laughed softly, brushing back a wisp of hair stuck to her forehead. “What does that mean?”

“Means...means I love you. And that I'm yours,” Yvaleth translated, once she was a little more collected.

“Which one is I love you?”

“ _Arlath ma_.”

“ _Arlath ma_ , Yvaleth,” he said seriously in return. He began to draw away slightly, but Yvaleth kept hold of his shoulders.

“Will you...can we now? Please?” Though feeling a bit languid and sleepy, she pushed her hips up against his so he could have no doubt what he meant. “I got the herbs I needed in the Storm Coast.” That had been one of the reasons they had waited until after her trip, so that Yvaleth could source the ingredients for a contraceptive tincture.

Cullen bit his lip, hesitating. “But I want it to be perfect, for you. Your first time. Not after I've made you furious.”

Yvaleth laughed softly. “It will be perfect because it will be with you. Please, Cullen? Please love me...”

He gave a long, low groan at that, then kissed her hard, showing all the need he'd been holding in check. His hands slid between her legs again, rubbing gently. “Do you need a break?” he asked in a husky voice.

Yvaleth shook her head, already eager and responsive once more. She laid a hand on the nape of his neck and began kissing all down his jaw. “Ready for you, my Cullen,” she whispered.

Cullen gave a shiver of pleasure at that, then parted her legs further with a firm pressure on her thighs. He guided himself to her entrance, pressing in just the first inch or two of his thick cock and stopping when Yvaleth gave a sharp gasp.

“It's all right,” she said breathily. “Just...feels so big.”

He gave a low, masculine laugh of pleasure at that and dropped a kiss on her forehead. “Remember, if it hurts, or you need me to stop, or wait, you have to tell me. No being brave for my sake.”

“What if—mm, what if it hurts, but in the good way?” Yvaleth stipulated.

“As long as it feels good,” Cullen allowed, then began to slowly push in deeper. It _did_ hurt, the tight stretch of his cock inside her, but not unpleasantly, and she was so wet from his attentions that his cock slid in with no trouble at all until he was completely sheathed inside her. She loved watching Cullen's face, the way his jaw set as he forced himself to proceed slowly and gently, the way his eyes were fixed on hers. Yvaleth felt completely full, and vulnerable in a new way, her whole body given to him.

“Is that all right?” he asked in a tight voice.

Yvaleth locked eyes with him. “Yes,” she said, clearly and deliberately, then pushed her hips up, urging him to move. “Yes.” Cullen needed no more urging, though he kept the pace slow, pulling almost all the way out so that he could slide home once more in a long, deep stroke. Before long, Yvaleth didn't have to focus on pushing up to meet him—her body knew what to do and easily took over. They exchanged soft, sweet kisses and clung to each other, and Yvaleth could tell he too was marveling at this new level of intimacy between them. Every part of her body seemed to sing with pleasure at their lovemaking.

Cullen changed angles, thrusting experimentally until he found the perfect spot that made Yvaleth cry out and clench around him, her need returning with full force. “I want you to come again,” he whispered hotly. “Come on my prick, little dove...”

Yvaleth nodded, grinding up against him, her teeth gritted. Her nails dug into Cullen's shoulders as she braced herself for the quickening thrusts. Though the room was cool, Cullen's forehead was beaded with perspiration, and he dipped his head to lap lightly at the sweat gathering at the base of her throat. “Cullen...” She had no words left but that, his name. It came out in a high-pitched whine of need.

“Yes,” he growled low. “Come for me. Now.” On the last word, he gave Yvaleth a sharp nip on the throat, and she shrieked, one leg coming up to twist around his hips, urging him deeper and deeper as she let go, her whole body shuddering and bucking from the pleasure of their mating while Cullen lost the last vestiges of his restraint, fucking her hard and fast.

She was still trembling with the aftershocks of her pleasure when Cullen gave a final, deep thrust and groaned, flooding her with his seed. He slumped on top of her, his weight braced on his forearms, and the two lovers panted, hearts racing, still joined with his softening cock inside her. “I love you,” Cullen whispered raggedly, kissing her forehead, her nose, her lips.

Then with a sigh, he withdrew, rolling onto his back and pulling her with him so that her head was pillowed on his chest where it belonged. Yvaleth enjoyed listening to the thundering of his heartbeat, her fingers trailing idly through the golden curls on his chest. She felt more relaxed than she could ever remember, completely peaceful and weary. “I wish we could stay like this forever,” Yvaleth murmured. “I love you so much, Cullen, you can't know.”

He turned his head just slightly, giving her a hint of his sweet, crooked smile. “I have an idea of it,” he said. “But if we stay like this forever, we can't do that again.”

“Mmm, you have a point. Maybe just in the bed?” Yvaleth kissed his neck softly, then asked, a little shyly, “It was good for you?”

“Yvaleth...” Cullen trailed off, gathering his thoughts, then said, “It was never like that, with another woman. So beautiful, so right. It may have been your first time making love, but in a way, it was mine, too. You're so precious to me.”

His words seemed to go straight to the empty, aching places inside Yvaleth's heart, filling and soothing them. She felt tears prick her eyes and closed them so he wouldn't see, just nuzzling into his chest and trying to show all the love and adoration she felt. “Me too,” she whispered hoarsely. “Me too.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enormous apologies for how long this chapter has taken to get out! I'm in the middle of some elaborate life transition stuff, so while I can't promise no more delays, I do hope I'll be able to make more time for the story in the future. (And, omg, SOMEDAY to write something else!)


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